Paint Him Black
by The Jack of Spades
Summary: FF6. He promised to tell her. She wanted to hear it. At long last, several months into the world of rebirth, the shadows are torn away.
1. Pancakes and the Silver City

_Paint Him Black_  
By Kitt   
  
Disclaimer: Square ownz...any and all characters/places/things from FF6 ^_-   
  
  
I - Pancakes and the Silver City

  
  


Relm Arrowny sat alone in her bedroom, hands all black with charcoal. She was sketching. 

There would be no playing outside for her on this hot day. Only the really rowdy kids were out there and Relm didn't like to play with them all too much. Most of them were boys, but that wasn't the problem. Heck, there were even a few cute ones that had caught her eye. The trouble was that they liked to play in the sand and sometimes even in the mud holes not too far from Thamasa's beaches. Relm hated getting dirty. She wasn't much for the beach itself either. The sand always managed to stick between her toes and drive her crazy. 

It was good for tanning though. 

She was on her bed, knees up, her sketchpad resting against them. She wasn't quite sure what she was drawing. She had started out with a vague, head-like shape, thought of making it into a monster, but then changed her mind when the eyes came out a bit too human. Very well, she'd make it into a person. Wouldn't be too hard for her. She was Thamasa's artistic genius, after all. 

And Owzer's too, back in Jidoor. 

Yes, he'd want her to finish that painting very soon. It had been a few months already and she still hadn't gone back there. She intended on living up to her promises, but she hadn't felt like working on a masterpiece lately. Summer made kids lazy. 

_Hmm, whose face is this? Who's this gonna be?_

She narrowed her eyes at her picture. So far, it was just a head and two eyes. 

_I know._

With the charcoal, she drew some long hair tied back with a ribbon, a very familiar nose, added some charm to the eyes as best she could, and drew few dimples and a beaming smile. 

_Voila! Edgar! Hehehe...good ol' lover boy._

It wasn't perfect, but it would do. Thank goodness she hadn't used her special paints, or her so-called magic brush, or she would've been sitting besides a perfect clone of the King of Figaro. 

_Or would that really be a bad thing...?_

Her tiny lips quirked into a half-smile as she closed the sketchbook. 

_I miss him. I miss all of them._

She placed the book on her nightstand and slid off her bed. 

_I'm starving. Better go see if Gramps is up._

Her feet touched down on something soft. A yelp followed. Interceptor whimpered and scrambled out of Relm's way, looking up at her with an expression that could have been called reproachful---if he hadn't been a dog, that is. 

"Aw, I'm sorry boy. Didn't know you were in the way." She reached down and ruffled the fur of the dog's neck apologetically. "C'mon, let's go see if the old man's awake. I'm hungry." She left the room, followed faithfully by Interceptor. 

After Shadow's vanishing in Kefka's tower, his dog had become attached to Relm. It rarely left her side. And every time Relm laid eyes on the animal, she was reminded of his former owner, the man clad in darkness who had moved with the shadows. 

_The dog hates strangers,_ he had said. Funny then, how it took to her so quickly, just like that. 

_What a liar that guy was!_

She skipped downstairs lightheartedly, Interceptor at her heels. Her short summer dress danced about her knees and her blonde curls bounced freely, down to her shoulder blades, the longest she'd had her hair in years. Arriving in the living room, she caught her grandfather sprawled out on the armchair before the empty fireplace, head back. His snoring filled the whole room. 

"HEY OLD MAN!" 

"AHHH---! What, what?" Strago was all arms and legs for a moment, flailing about on the chair. "Relm! What did I tell you about scarin' the daylights outta me when I'm nappin'? Crazy girl..." He struggled to sit upright, wincing at his aching back. _Gonna give me a coronary one day._

"Sorry Grandpa, but you _are_ practically deaf," Relm stated matter-of-factly. Interceptor left her side and jumped up at the old man. 

"Dang dog! Heel! Sit! Down! Relm!" Interceptor's paws rested on Strago's knees as he lavished the old mage with animal affection. Strago had his hands full trying to keep the beast at bay. 

Relm frowned. "My name's not a doggie command." She walked over to Interceptor and spoke merely one word---heel---and the dog instantly complied, settling down at Strago's feet. 

Her grandfather threw her a cynical look. "Always obeys you, doesn't it? You'd think he'd listen to me after living here for so long." 

"Never mind the dog. I'm starvin'! I need food!" 

Strago sighed. "All right. What'll it be?" 

Relm smiled that winsome little grin of hers. "Pancakes." 

"What?" Strago glanced at the clock on the wall. He squinted at it, then reached for his specs on the table and tried again. "It's...after two o'clock in the afternoon! Pancakes are for breakfast!" 

"Not here they aren't! You asked me what I wanted, and that's it. I want pancakes! Lots of 'em! And on the double!" She pointed a commanding finger at him. 

"Would it hurt to say 'please'?" 

"Would it matter if I did? You'll do it anyway if I ask." 

The old mage grimaced, defeated again by the childish charms of his adopted granddaughter. Things had always been that way ever since she came to live under his roof. Relm had learned to take advantage of Strago's good nature in a few weeks' time, and Strago himself grew to tolerate being bossed around by what was back then just a curly-haired little toddler. 

He did try to punish her every now and then, but it never seemed to have an effect in the long run. 

"All right, you win. C'mon, into the kitchen." 

He got to his feet, stepping over a lively Interceptor, and led the way to the small kitchen. Inside, he began rummaging for the ingredients for the pancake batter. Cabinet doors flung open and dishes and cups were placed irregularly on the table. The afternoon sunlight filtered in through the curtained windows, turning their sheer orange into flaming gold. Spontaneously, Relm walked over and parted them, allowing the light to flow through freely. 

_There, that's much better._

"I could use a hand, Relm." 

"Whatever you say." The eleven-year-old shrugged and went to help her grandfather, hoisting a sack of flour up from its spot in the kitchen corner, where it had been slouching wearily against the wall. 

"Sure you can lift that?" Strago eyed the girl cautiously. 

"...Of course..." Relm took the sack into her skinny arms, her face flushed from strain. She rushed over to the table and set it down with a loud sigh. A small puff of white arose from the corner up top. She wiped her forehead mechanically. "Oi... Hey Gramps! You know, you promised to tell me daddy's story one day." 

"I did?" 

"Yes, you did. Back on Setzer's ship. And I know you're not _that_ forgetful!" 

The old mage stopped in the middle of his bustling about, his dark eyes cloudy with thought. "Yeah, I vaguely remember saying something about that..." Of course he hadn't forgotten; he was just hesitant... 

"I've waited for months already! And a promise is a promise!" 

Strago turned to Relm and found her staring at him persistently, her eyes hard. Oh, how could he resist that little pout? 

How could he resist her at all, whether she was pouting or throwing a tantrum? 

_But I'm not sure if Relm's really ready to hear the truth. Maybe this could wait a few more years...?_ Yes, maybe he could prolong the inevitable again for a little bit, until he was more certain about his granddaughter's reaction. Maybe she'd swallow the pill easier at thirteen. Or sixteen... 

"Are you sure you wanna hear it now?" he asked her, using that soft-eyed look he usually gave her when he was trying to beat around the bush. "Because I know you think you know everything, but let me tell you girl, there's a lot you don't know about your old man---" 

"Cut to the _chase_, Grandpa, and let's hear some storytellin'!" 

"But it's a long story..." 

Are you _still_ trying to back out of it?" 

"---Gonna take more than a day to tell the whole thing..." 

"I've got patience! So let's hear it!" 

Ah, no use. Foiled twice in one day. At this rate, he'd never be able to put it off for another month or two. "All right, fine. You win. Again." _Dang persistent little..._ "Get out the butter and I'll start. This takes place thirty-some years ago, so of course you weren't a thought in your momma's head yet. Actually, I don't think your momma had seen the light of day yet herself..."

-----

The mining camp of Narshe was a relatively new city. It sprouted at the base of the great northern mountains only five years ago, when a few folk from Nikeah seeking riches for themselves happened upon silver in the catacombs. When they returned home loaded with the precious ore, rumors fired up the port city. Many Nikeans abandoned life by the sea for a chance to start fresh near the foothills up north. Despite the harsh winters and threats of avalanches, people were determined to strike it rich. Day by day the rumors grew even more exotic, with tales of jewels and even gold in those great mine shafts, guarded by creatures whose skins could also rack up a small fortune. It was hard to tell just how many people left their homes behind back then. 

Word of the newfound mining town's riches spread across the rest greater continent, attracting both the earnest and the greedy. Some folk from Figaro packed up and headed for the colder climate, a trip which took travelers weeks. Even those from as far west as Kohlingen took the train through the western mountains, adding to Narshe's swelling populace. Those from Zozo in the far south came in time, those drifters and thieves who sought either a way to make a decent living or just wanted more wealth to pilfer. In time Narshe was overflowing with people, which soon forced the newly appointed elder of the city to chase out any newcomers. Undaunted, they settled down in significantly smaller settlements built about a mile or two away. These little towns flanking the Silver City never lasted very long, but rather served as places for new prospectors to stay until room was found for them in Narshe. 

When a new building was up or an older one was abandoned, Narshe's Lot Commission admitted the next person on the list into town, where they would take up residence and begin to realize their dreams. And so it was for the greater part of Narshe's early existence. People moved in and out of the town. The disappointed soon rivaled the hopeful, as many left the mining camp empty-handed and flat broke. Not all dreams were meant to come true. 

There were quite a few lucky folks, however. Some who packed up and headed home after several months' stay at Narshe were loaded with silver ore and the raw forms of a few other precious metals, for there was more than just silver alone in the great mountains. Too, moogles were discovered, but as man encroached on their territory day by day in a desperate search for riches, those elusive little creatures eventually dug deeper into the shafts. There were sasquatch living in the caves as well, but unlike the moogles, they weren't ignored for the larger part: a furrier could rack up a pretty gil for a coat made from their hides. Narshe boasted wealth in many forms. 

A small family from Zozo had managed to claw their way to the famed Silver City, stopping at town after town along the way. The father of the family, a cobbler by trade, was about as average as they came from the town of thieves, though he wasn't above stealing in any way. In fact, he owed much of his trip funds to successful pick pocketing. However, that wouldn't be necessary in the near future. He was going to make his family rich. They would start all over in Narshe, and if things didn't turn out right, well, they had little to lose. After all, Zozo was one of the worst cities in the world. The father lived all his life there; going back wouldn't be too much of a bad thing. 

The family's name was Arrowny, and at one point both husband and wife had five children to boast. Out of those five the youngest child Clyde was the only survivor. Those that came before him had died of illness; one had even been kidnapped when she was only a few years old. Her parents weren't even sure if she was still alive. Clyde himself hadn't survived his early years unscathed: in addition to catching scarlet fever, he had his appendix removed a few months before his family left for Narshe, after being punched low in the middle by a much bigger boy in a fight over a game of jacks. Such was how things were in Zozo, which, along with Narshe's rumored silver, fed the father Edmund's decision to take leave of the wretched town---

-----

"Waaaaaait a minute, Gramps!" Relm interrupted, dusting flour off her hands. The pancake batter was just about finished, sitting in a large bowl, waiting to be fried. "How do you know all this about Narshe and stuff? Did daddy tell you?" 

"Yep. Didn't make a gil's worth of that stuff up myself, if that's what you're asking," Strago answered her. He threw a glance at the old stove. "I need a match." 

"Comin' up." Relm opened one of the kitchen drawers and removed a pack of matches. She handed them to her grandfather, who lit one and made to get the stove started. 

His voice drifted out from inside the great cast-iron cauldron. "I will say this though... Your old man wasn't too specific about how many kids his mother had. Every now and then when he retold the story, the number would change. And as for the start of Narshe... I can't verify that. Only he knows. I never set a foot off this island until after Locke and Terra came along." _And Shadow, too..._

While Strago was inside the stove with the lighted match, Relm took the opportunity to sneak a fingertip's worth of batter from the bowl. 

"So," she resumed, licking her lips rather loudly, "daddy might've been lying about some of his story?" 

"Maybe," said Strago, now backing out of the stove, smoldering match in one hand. The fire inside was ablaze. "As far as his early days go, I can only tell you what he told me. Now, where was I?" 

"At the part where daddy's father left Zozo. Jeez, you ARE forgetful, old man!" 

"Forgetful? You just listen here---!" 

"The _story_, Grandpa," Relm said simply. 

"Humph! Here, get rid of this match."

-----

The Arrowny family did not get into Narshe right away, as was to be expected. Instead, they ended up in the small outskirt town of Valdebrooke, two miles away from the Silver City. Valdebrooke was a loose-knit gathering of chocobo stables and merchants hawking all sorts of rare and unusual trinkets. It was one of the more "middle-aged" establishments that preceded Narshe, so there were quite a few people out on the streets. There were no homes, just street after street of inns and hotels. After all, since Valdebrooke had no silver, whoever would plan on staying there permanently? 

The family of three carried only the clothes on their backs; they had little belongings of importance to take for the trip. It was midday when they purchased a room in a hotel on Stratt Street, using money snatched from the purse of a pompous Jidoor woman en route to Narshe herself, on the train through the western mountains. Two-hundred-some gil there was, more than enough at that time to lodge for a few weeks if they didn't go for someplace too classy. The leftover amount combined with everything else they had would keep the small family on its feet until the name Arrowny appeared at the top of the Lot Commission list. 

Which would end up taking a few weeks. 

During that time the family's eight-year-old son took to playing in the streets, not hindered in the least by the heavy foot-traffic and the occasional chocobo-drawn cart. The dusty town took its eventual toll on his wiry little self---his light skin lay hidden under a mask of gray ash and his short tawny hair was dark with soot. At the end of the day his mother had quite a time cleaning off that dirt. 

Scrawny though he was, he was certainly no weakling. What his limbs lacked in fat they more than made up for with lean muscle, the type that could make a good warrior out of him one day, or an army soldier if he chose to be professional about things. He wore no welcome in his eyes, normally using their dark glint to drive people away. A snaky shade of green they were, and very haunting---sure signs of a chip on the shoulder, an unabated vendetta, a desire to be avenged for some mysterious misdeed. He was a born pessimist. 

Clyde had been tossing pebbles into Stratt Street one afternoon, almost a week into his family's stay in Valdebrooke. By then, he had explored every alleyway, every hidden corner, every unseen nook and cranny of the small outpost. Day by day things failed to impress him. To top everything off, there weren't any kids his age living nearby that he could play with. He felt isolated, surrounded by so many grownups rushing here and there with business agendas on their minds. He curved his wrist and sent another gray stone skipping into the wide street. 

_Clap, clap, clap..._silence. 

He was hoping that it would have ended up hitting something. Anything! Anything to upset this routine, all these same old comings and goings. 

Across the street were a few merchant stores, some of them a bit more well to do than others. One in particular had managed to catch his eye on day one: seemingly well faring, though in a modest way, open-aired, and filled with all sorts of delightful little objects. There was an awfully tempting rapier hanging on the wall in back, its handle ivory and silver, its long blade winking tauntingly at him in the sunlight as if to say, _You could never have this, could you? Poor boy, with such poor parents!_

There was jewelry of all kinds on the counter, necklaces and elegant bracelets and rings studded with sapphires. There was a strange-looking headdress of sorts too, a round band trimmed with dyed chocobo feathers in bright colors and lots of beads and assorted gaudy stuff. Clyde wondered who the former owner had been. Also in the back was something that he actually truly desired, and perhaps even something that his parents could have afforded: a bandanna, a big black one with fancy white markings set in a pattern. Being a boy, he wanted it solely for decorative value, and he got a kick out of imagining himself in it. It had such a dark, unassuming quality about it; it became downright irresistible after a few days. 

Clyde had asked his father for money to buy it recently, but was rebuffed. "We're gonna need every gil we have when we get into Narshe," his father told him. "Can't afford to go throwin' it away on the junk they sell around here." 

"But I'll never SEE it again when we get into Narshe!" the boy whined. "It'll be gone! Someone'll have bought it by then!" 

His father dismissed the idea. "Boy, when I make this family's fortune, I'll be able to buy you a dozen a' those." 

But Clyde didn't want a dozen. He wanted that _one_ bandanna, or rather, as time went on, wanted the feel it gave him more than anything else. It had become the first obsession he would remember. 

It seemed as though the devil himself had picked his brain one day, and sent him the idea of stealing the money from his father to get the bandanna or to just steal the darn thing itself from the shop. Either way, his angel had the final say, and so there Clyde was, sitting on the porch of the hotel, flicking pebbles and coveting the black bandanna in the merchant's shop across the street. 

He had never really hated his parents, nor had he ever minded being poor, but now the position was loathsome. 

Out of sheer boredom he rose, dropped the remaining stones he had, and crossed the street, paying no mind to the cart that had to swerve out of his way to avoid a collision with him. He even paid no mind to the mouth he got from the frustrated driver. Serves him right, he thought. His eyes should be on the road. 

Nearly all the while his green eyes hovered on the precious bandanna, the enviable object, the symbol of stylishness in its own humble right. He came to a point right before the counter and placed his hands on top, peering over the edge. Yes, there it was, hanging lazily on the wall on a silver hook. Beautiful... 

"Nice sword, huh? Like swords?" 

Clyde tore his stare from the bandanna and found himself staring at the sudden speaker. Tall he was, or at least so from a boy's point of view, brown-haired, and dark of eye, either hazel or brown. It was hard to tell. He was leaning on the countertop amongst all the assorted items, a clever smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He had likeable written all over him. 

"Nah, not the sword," Clyde answered, as calmly as you please. "That there bandanna." He pointed to it, trying to seem as adult like as he could manage. 

"Oh, that? That's nothing really. Most people go for the sword. Not that that's surprising or anything. It's a genuine Narshe souvenir, sort of. That silver inlay---that came straight outta the mines of the Silver City itself. And the blade was made in Doma." 

Oh, sure, it was a pretty sword, but Clyde knew that his parents would certainly say no to it. Besides, he wasn't really interested in weapons. Who was it who had said to him once that the clothes made the man? Well, that bandanna had the power to change him into a man as far as Clyde was concerned. 

His eyes darted to the feathered headdress, a temporary distraction. "An' what's this?" 

"That...? That's a, uh, well...I really don't know," the man said, scratching the back of his neck. "Someone found it in the mines in Narshe and sold it to us. I made the mistake of buying the damn thing, and my father hit the ceiling. So now, when people ask what it is, I have to tell them that it's a 'moogle headdress,' so people think it's worth value. Or at least that's what my old man tells me." He looked at Clyde and smiled again. "But don't you go about tellin' anyone that I said that." 

Father? Oh, so he wasn't the final authority of this place then? Clyde gave him a more scrutinizing stare. He looked old enough to be caught somewhere between nineteen and twenty-four on a good day. 

"Where's yer dad now?" Clyde asked. 

"Oh, he's in back," the man answered, jerking a thumb behind him. There, off to the right, were the thin lines and grey hinges of a closed door that Clyde hadn't previously noticed. "Our home is right behind here." 

"Ain'tcha worried about people stealin' stuff here at night, when yer asleep?" 

"No, that's when that rolled-up canvas above you comes down and gets tied." 

"What if someone's got a knife?" 

The shopkeeper chuckled. "Well, that's a chance we're willing to take here, me and my father. Most people in this town are so bent on getting the silver in Narshe that they don't give stealing from souvenir shops a passing thought. To be honest, not too many of these places are worth stealing from anyway. They usually carry junk." 

Clyde didn't respond. He hoped that the man wasn't putting him off from trying to get the bandanna. Not that Clyde would try to nick it; after all, he'd already dismissed the idea of thievery. He just couldn't see his obsession as something unworthy of attention. Sure, it wasn't flashy, but that was the greatest thing about it. It's flash couldn't be found in the glimmer of added silver from Narshe or anything like that. 

There was a half a moment of quiet before the young man spoke up again. "How long have you been here, kid?" 

Clyde didn't answer right away. He didn't mind asking other people questions that much, but he certainly minded being intruded upon. Of course, the young man's question was harmless, but Clyde was a skeptical boy. In his mind no query could be totally innocent. "Why do you wanna know?" 

The young man's eyes went soft, as if deep inside he'd been offended. "I was just curious. I didn't mean to pry." 

The green-eyed boy looked thoughtful. Well, this guy _seemed_ innocent. Maybe he could be trusted...a little. "I've been here almost a week." 

"Where're your parents staying?" 

Again, there was hesitation before the question was answered. "That hotel there, right across the street." 

"The Marx?" 

Clyde nodded. 

"It's a nice hotel from what I hear. You like it there?" 

Clyde sighed a bit irritably and the young man seemed to tolerate that gesture willingly. "Sort of. I guess," he replied evasively. Truthfully, the boy felt better when he was giving people an answer that they couldn't readily interpret. His eyes went back to the bandanna and his longing for it returned. 

The young man at the counter may have been a bit soft and a bit too honest, but he was quick on the mark when he wanted to be. "You really want that ratty thing, don't you?" 

The boy nodded. "My dad won't get it for me," he explained. 

"Ahhh, it's not that expensive. Won't cost ya much. As a matter of fact," the man said, his voice reaching a peak, "it won't cost you a thing. We're not selling it for very much anyway." With one long lean arm he reached back, nabbed the bandanna off the hook, and handed it to Clyde, who took it eagerly. His dirty face lit up and his eyes shined and he had lost all traces of his serious, melancholic look...until his natural suspicion took over once more. 

"Wait," he said, "are you really gonna jus' _give_ this to me? You don't want money for it?" His eyes then dropped to the bandanna, now resting in his hands. The material was so soft, so smooth, and up close it was even more dashing. And so big! He couldn't wait to try it on and see what he looked like wearing it. 

"Nah, go crazy kiddo. I probably couldn't pawn that thing off on a good day. Go nuts." 

Well, that was all Clyde needed to hear! His smile was the real thing this time, not caught up in the smirk or leer of distrust. He held his new treasure out against the wind, admiring it in all its glory, watching it twist and trail out like a flag. Shouldn't he thank the man? Nah, he could always do that later. He'd best be off back to his parents to show them what he got today. Proof that Clyde Arrowny always got his way, even if he had to wait a little bit for it to come to him. When he had admired the bandanna sufficiently, he tried to put it on, but it was then that it hit him---he wasn't quite sure of how to get it on just right. It was really huge! He looked at it helplessly for a moment or two, trying to figure out a way to get it on without having to humble himself to ask for assistance. 

"Need a hand?" the friendly young man asked. 

Wordlessly Clyde went behind the counter and held the bandanna out to him shyly. Well, he offered to help, hadn't he? 

The young man threw Clyde a dashing smile and turned him around, dusted off his hair a bit, and tied on the revered bandanna. When he was finished he turned the boy around again and gave him an appraising look. 

Clyde was flashing him his trademark half-smile. His eyes were verdant gems. 

"You look like a...like a...like a pirate actually." 

Really, the boy looked more like a street rat wearing an oversized bandanna, but in its own quirky way, the thing suited him. It covered all of his short hair and was so big that the ends that trailed from the knot in the back were nearly as long as his arms. And the black color complemented his green eyes. He beamed beneath what he took to be praise, even though he wasn't the type of boy who smiled or blushed often. 

"I don't gotta sword or anything though," he said, suddenly realizing the inadequacy. 

"That can be fixed." The young man reached up again, this time removing the ivory-hilted sword on the wall. He handed it to a boy who was struggling to suppress his abundant excitement. "You're not getting this one for free though." He winked at Clyde. 

"Ya sure I won't try to run away with this?" Clyde asked slyly. 

"Nah, I'm positive you won't," the young man replied, looking the boy in the eye. He grinned confidently. 

Clyde smiled back. Ha, he trusted way too easily. Fortunately for him, it wasn't Clyde's nature back then to stab a gift-horse in the mouth any more than it was his nature to look in there for more. His father had told him to accept what came to him and be grateful enough never to expect anything else. Spontaneously Clyde struck a swashbuckling sort of pose, waving his sword at an imaginary enemy, pretending that he really was a pirate aboard some fantastic ship, getting ready to set sail into the sunset. "How do I look?" 

"Oh, like you're ready to plunder a port. Where's your first mate, captain?" 

Clyde was taken a back for a few seconds. Captain? Did he want to be captain of anything? No, he never wanted to be a leader. He was happy being a loner, even if it did get boring having no other kids around in this town. 

"Ah, I ain't no captain," he spoke proudly after a time. "I'm a lone pirate. I don't need anybody." 

The young man cracked another smile. "You're a strange kid, I'll give you that." 

"Why's that?" 

"Well, most kids usually like company. Sure, you'll see a loner here and there, but usually they're the type that don't _like_ being loners. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you seem to enjoy it." 

Clyde paused again, studying his new friend. He was right. Very perceptive. How he figured that out so fast was a mystery to the boy with sandy hair and green eyes, but he wouldn't let it throw him for very long. He caved in and beamed at the man with an expression that fell between a leer and a crooked smile---his gesture of acceptance. 

"I'd like a mirror," he said. "I wanna see what I look like." 

"A mirror? I don't have one here, but inside there's one in my room..." There the young man trailed off, his eyes growing hazy with uncertainty. "But I don't think my father would like me to just go inviting strangers in there at the drop of a hat." This time his ensuing smile was a bit queer, as if it was trying to hint at something. 

Clyde didn't follow right away, being as young as he was. "How's that? We've been talkin' for a while now---" 

"What I mean is, I'd like to get your name, if that's okay with you." 

His name, eh? Well! After all that talking, it was evident that this young man was worth trusting. Clyde responded in what could have been called record time for him. 

"It's Clyde." 

"I see. I'm Gavin." 

The boy and the young man shook hands. 

"C'n I go in now?" 

"Certainly." Gavin turned to the door behind him, knocked a few times, and then entered with Clyde in tow. The boy left the silver rapier back on the store counter. It had occurred to him vaguely that someone might have tried to steal it while the storekeeper was away, but that wasn't any of his concern. 

Inside, the house was dark, save for a few kerosene lamps shedding orange light that kept the blackness from becoming complete. There was a faint whiff of tobacco coming from somewhere unseen; it was then that a very tall figure emerged from the back of the house. Over six feet he was, and thin, and as he drew closer to the lights his thick gray mustache came into view, along with a pair of black eyebrows and two very dark eyes. Despite his lack of obvious muscle, he was imposing. 

"Dad, why do you always turn the lights down so much? It's too dark in here, for gods' sake!" Gavin moved away from his guest and turned up the flames of all the lamps in the room, bringing the place to full lighting. He darted back and forth throughout the room, parting the curtains of some of the windows here and there as well. 

"I _told_ you, I like it that way," his father answered him. His voice was fathomlessly deep, maybe from years of smoking. Clyde noticed the pipe in his hand. "I thought I heard you come in here," he continued. "Why ain't you outside?" 

"Oh, I brought a guest, that's why." He returned to Clyde's side and pushed him forward towards his old man. "This is Clyde. He just wants to use the mirror in my room. He wants to see what he looks like in his new bandanna." At that Gavin patted Clyde on the head. Beneath him, the boy squirmed, uncomfortable with being the center of attention. 

Gavin's father grimaced a bit, but didn't put up much resistance. It was as if he didn't really mind having an unexpected guest deep inside. The fresh light coming into the room made his attire easy to see: black vest, white dress shirt, black slacks, and long silver hair gathered into a thin tail at the back of his head. He looked like a figure cut out of a photograph, and stood equally as still. 

"And Clyde," Gavin went on, "this is my father, Mr. Abbingway." 

Mr. Abbingway nodded curtly at the boy. Clyde watched him, swallowing silently. He was really impressive! And to top it all off, he was no dynamic figure, no dashing swordsman or swaggering pirate. He was simply a shop owner in a small city that was meant only to house hundreds of Silver City hopefuls...and he seemed to be mighty comfortable with that. He had the slim outlines of an aged tree, a withered oak whittled down by the elements that still stood tall after all those years. He spoke with a kind of authority that seemed to come from within himself, not from a title or something obvious. He was certain. He was sure. And that was that. 

It was the root of Clyde's second memorable obsession. That tall figure had made an impression on him to end all impressions. All of a sudden the bandanna on his head no longer seemed important. It no longer held the power to make him a man. No, now he wanted to become a Mr. Abbingway in his own right. _He_ was going to be dark and silent and self-sufficient. _He_ was going to be absolutely certain. And that would be that, in time. 

"Quiet little fella, ain'tcha?" 

Clyde said nothing. He was still blinded by Mr. Abbingway's very presence. 

"He's a boy of few words," Gavin jumped in, "kind of like you, dad." 

Mr. Abbingway grunted, then trained his eyes on the boy's bandanna. "Looks awfully familiar," he spoke, stroking the top of Clyde's head absently. "In fact, it looks just like the one we have hanging outside..." He trailed off and raised his eyes to his son. 

Gavin softened somewhat under his father's dark stare. "He paid for it," he said, reaching into the back pocket of his trousers and pulling out a few gils, evidentially his own money. "See?" 

Clyde was stunned. He was paying for it himself? Whatever for? To make his old man happy? For a moment there the boy was tempted to finally speak up and admit the truth, but he held his tongue and minded his own father's advice. Another gift-horse had come along. 

Mr. Abbingway grunted once more, but made no indication of buying into the lie. "I can't afford to lose out money-wise in this town. Bad enough business is so terrible these days." His hand had never left Clyde's head, not even when he looked down at the boy and said, "Back room, on your left, and don't think about goin' anywhere else." 

Of course he was referring to Gavin's room, the one with the mirror he had wanted to see, but at the time Clyde didn't give the directions much thought. The most important thing was that they were carried out. He took off in a flash for the aforementioned room, with not one glance behind at his new friend. 

He found the room very easily, much to his relief. Inside, the windows were wide open and the light of day was free to pour in. The view was an expected one: a long, almost endless stretch of grassy plain, edged off in the far distance by the rising peaks of mountains. Near the base of those mighty mountains was the Silver City of Narshe, no doubt bustling with activity at this hour. 

Clyde tore his gaze from the window and sought out the mirror. It was atop a great dresser before Gavin's bed. He stood right in the middle of its frame and took a long look at himself. He was the perfect picture of a street boy, dusty from head to foot. The only thing about him that hadn't yet been soiled was the brand new bandanna tied tightly on his head, sections of its bold white pattern lost within small creases. Too, his eyes were as bright as ever, but still retained their devilish snakelike quality. 

Gavin was right, he _did_ look like a pirate. 

Yet the bandanna didn't seem as great as before. A thought flickered through his mind: why ever had it been so important to him? Whatever had made him want it so much? Well, there was no point in complaining about the gift. After all, Gavin had just recently paid for it out of his own pocket, managing to save Clyde's butt in the process. 

And Mr. Abbingway had frightened him. To be sure, the man had the kind of figure that a strapping twelve-year-old boy could lick in a few minutes, but it wasn't his build that Clyde feared. It was _him_, and the things that he might very well be able to do. 

That was part of the reason why Clyde was so angry with himself just then. He'd made a coward of himself! He had shown fear back there. That kind of feeling should never be displayed. Clyde hadn't learned that lesson from his parents, however; he'd picked it up during his early years in Zozo's streets, where he witnessed a variety of crimes during which people had acted like utter cowards in order to avoid getting killed. What fools! How could they live with themselves afterwards? They were spared because of pity, not because they were worth sparing. Clyde snorted. He would have chosen death had he been in any one of those positions, rather than show his fright. Was he the only person who felt that way? 

Well, when he got back out there, he'd show that Mr. Abbingway just how tough he really was! He'd look that man in the eye as composed as could be. Besides, he looked amazing in his new present. Perhaps that bandanna still had some of its former charm. 

He left Gavin's bedroom and made his way into the living room behind the store. It was then that he noticed something---Gavin didn't seem to be there. The house behind the store had fallen silent. Too, the lamps had been extinguished, but the windows remained open and the curtains parted. Butterflies were in Clyde's stomach now, but he ignored them. He wouldn't make the mistake of letting them dictate his actions this time. 

Mr. Abbingway was sitting on a large armchair in one corner of the room, puffing away on that pipe of his, which filled the room with a hazy gray fog. An open book lay spread across his lap. Clyde eyed him secretly, wondering if perhaps he could just dash past him without being seen. What a glorious thing it would be, he thought, to be able to turn invisible. 

Those dark, dangerous eyes left the open book and found Clyde immediately, hovering in the little passage between the back of the house and its living room. Black-brown, those eyes had caught him and held him still like a trapped animal. 

Don't be afraid, don't show him fear, Clyde told himself. 

"Tell me something, youngster. Tell me the truth. You didn't really pay for that bandanna, did you?" 

Clyde swallowed. He could feel his face flush. Dang it, didn't he swear to himself that he wouldn't show fear again? And now here he was, speechless. Well, he couldn't avoid answering, could he? No, he was too afraid of Mr. Abbingway for that. But could he tell the truth? Heck, it seemed like it was already out in the open...but would that make things worse than they already were? 

"I won't bite ya; just answer." Again the great voice rumbled throughout the room like thunder. Clyde had to answer now; he didn't have a choice. 

So he shook his head. No, he didn't pay for the bandanna. 

Mr. Abbingway grunted approvingly. "I didn't think so. My son's an over-generous sonovagun when he wants to be. Cost me a lot over the years." A reflective pause. "You should thank him when you leave." 

Clyde nodded. Yes, yes of course he'd thank Gavin! Absolutely! Without a second thought, he made to run off, sensing an opening to escape, when Mr. Abbingway stopped him again. 

"You're not a bad kid..." 

Wait a minute. He and his new friend had tried to pull a fast one on this man, and yet he _wasn't_ a bad kid? This changed things. Clyde wondered if Mr. Abbingway wasn't simply trying to make conversation with him like his son had successfully done. But Gavin was more open and friendly, just the opposite of Clyde himself...and this tall, quiet man who liked living in a dark house. 

All of Clyde's earlier shyness melted away. The wide eyes, the speechlessness, the urge to flee---all gone. He stopped and studied Gavin's father. How old was he? He had to have been fifty or sixty-something, judging by the gray hair and the big mustache. 

Mr. Abbingway finished his earlier remark. "Kinda like me when I was your age." A slow, deliberate smile. 

_Like_ him? So Clyde was like Mr. Abbingway already? 

The smile faded, but the impression it left did not. "Go on, git. Gavin's outside." 

Clyde was off in the blink of an eye.

-----

"All right now, bring your plate here." 

Relm complied and Strago piled on two pancakes, one at a time. The eleven-year-old watched while hunger made her stomach restless. 

"Syrup's on the table," her grandfather told her. 

She was seated seconds later, dressing her meal with a small dab of butter and just the right amount of maple syrup. It had to be just right, or it wouldn't be worth eating. Relm hated soggy food. 

Strago sat across from her, having made some pancakes for himself. 

"That Gavin sounds like a nice guy," Relm stated out of the blue. She cut her pancakes crosswise and speared one section with her fork. "Even though it's so weird---why would a guy his age wanna be friends with a kid almost my age?" She popped the forkful of food into her mouth and chewed. 

"Ahh, well...your old man was kinda lonely back then, I suppose. No other kids around to hang out with. Even though like I said, he liked being by himself." Strago reached across the table for the pitcher of syrup. "And Gavin, well... Your father always spoke well of him. Seems like he was a little lonely in that town too." 

"If daddy was such a loner, then how'd he meet mom?" 

"Oh, you'll see. I was there when _that_ happened." The old man smiled. _Yes, I remember that...and I won't forget it either. One of the best times in my whole life._ He cut his own pancakes, every now and then raising his brown eyes to behold the girl he'd taken in nearly ten years ago. _She'll like that part, that's for sure. But will she like everything else, including the worst part...?_

Strago lost himself in thought. Relm asked him a question absently, but he didn't even hear it. 

_That was her old man who saved her when her friend's house caught on fire a year ago..._

"Grandpa...?" 

_That was her old man who died in the tower... Gods, I'll never forgive him for that---_

"GRANDPA!" 

"...Eh? What is it?" 

"I asked you if you could finish the story later! There's something I wanna draw, when I'm done eating." 

"Oh? Anything in particular?" 

"Maybe. Or maybe not." She shrugged, then grinned broadly, from ear to ear, realizing that the ambiguity of her answer smacked of the way her father had behaved so many years ago. 

She'd practically read her grandfather's mind. Strago smirked. _Humph. Just like her old man._


	2. Week Two, and an Unexpected Letter

_Sorry about the long wait for this chapter._   
  
  
  
  
  


II - Week Two, and an Unexpected Letter

  
  


She wondered if it looked anything like him—or rather, anything like the way he looked _back then_, when he was only an eight-year-old boy. She'd drawn this masterpiece in pencil, so there was always the emergency eraser available if she wasn't totally satisfied. 

_Ah, I dunno... I think the nose is too small._

Relm narrowed her hazel eyes, concentrating, trying to imagine the face with a bigger nose. 

_Dang it, I can't decide..._

Instinctively her hand reached for the pencil lying on her bed, her gaze never leaving the drawing. Oh, but wait... The bandanna looked awfully good. Sure, she didn't know exactly what it looked like, but she thought she did such a wonderful job with the shading, wonderful enough to make her proud, actually. 

_Fine, I'll leave it as is—_

"Relm!" came the shout from downstairs. "You've got a letter!" 

"I do?" In an instant both pencil and artwork were abandoned, as Relm Arrowny slid off her bed and raced out of her room, downstairs to see who the sender was. 

_TerraEdgarLockeSabinSetzer—anybody! Here's hoping it's lover boy, hee._

But whatever for would Edgar write Relm? 

_Because he'll want a portrait done one day, something to commemorate him being a king and all. And what other artist could he possibly know?_

Well, being king, Relm realized that Edgar might know hundreds of artists, maybe even thousands. Heck, he might even hold a contest at Figaro one day, to see who was worthy of painting his famous face... 

Those flights of fancy aside, Relm arrived at the foot of the stairs to find her grandfather sifting through a small stack of envelopes, grumbling here and there about notices and taxes and other unwelcome grownup agenda. 

"Where's my letter?" 

"Right here," Strago said. He absently handed her an average-sized envelope with a fancy seal on the back and big swirling writing scrawled on the front. "It's from Jidoor," he told her. 

"What?" Paying no mind to the nice envelope, Relm tore it open and removed the neat, square little note that had been folded inside. She put her free hand on her hip, cocked her head to one side, and began to read aloud: 

"'Dearest Relm,' blah blah blah... 'Would like you to come back to Jidoor for a little visit,' blah blah blah... 'Finish painting,' blah blah blah... 'Fondly yours, Owzer.'" She studied the letter for a little bit before folding it up and falling silent for a time. "Well, it's about _time_ he wrote me!" she exclaimed. "I thought he'd just wait for me to show up on his doorstep, kinda like last time..." She raised her arm and looked at the note again. No, she hadn't been expecting this at all...not now, anyway. 

"You should finish what you started, Relm," her grandfather advised her. In his case, giving advice was a very rare pastime. 

"I know that! I just...don't feel like it right now. I'm hot and tired. He can wait a few more weeks." Absently she cast the letter over her shoulder, where it fluttered awkwardly to the floor. Strago saw this and bent down to retrieve it. 

"I just hope you're getting paid for that work," he muttered. 

"Paid? Nah. I offered to do that piece out of the kindness of my heart." 

"Eh? _Kindness of your heart_? I don't see how THAT'S going to help pay for this week's groceries! Or the mortgage! Or the village taxes—" 

"Ah, you grownups! Always about money! Whatever happened to charity, and goodwill, and all that other crap they teach us in school?" 

Said a skeptical Strago, "When goodwill becomes acceptable currency, I'll buy into it. Now, this Owzer fellow's all the way over in Jidoor? How're you gonna get there? I'm tellin' you, we'll have to cut corners left and right to get enough money for a ship ride..." 

But Relm was full of ideas. "I'll just write 'im back and talk to him about paying my travel expenses. I'm sure he'll listen—after all, he did say he couldn't find anybody else to finish the painting." She grew thoughtful for a moment. "But I can't leave right away anyway. You didn't finish the story, Grandpa." 

Strago threw her a blank look. "What story?" 

"'What story?'" Relm's jaw nearly dropped to the floor. "Gods, Grandpa, you really ARE senile! Don't you remember? Daddy's story? You were telling it to me, like, an hour or so ago?" _Because you promised to! _

"Oh yeah—" 

"Yes, _that_ story," said Relm. _Man, he must really be losin' it or something._ A small pause. "Ya know, I think you're getting worse! ...What's my name?" 

"Relm!" Strago snapped, hands flying to his hips. 

"Good! And what's _his_ name?" Relm continued, pointing to a lazy Interceptor curled up at the foot of Strago's armchair, basking in a patch of sunlight from an open window. When he heard his name, his ears twitched and he perked up a bit. 

"RELM!" 

"WRONG!" she said sharply, pointing a finger at him. 

"I know what the dog's name is! I ain't that forgetful! Now, let's see... Your father's story... Tell you what. I'll get around to it after I get s'more shut-eye—" 

"You already HAD some shut-eye! Earlier, remember?" Relm flustered at him. 

"Yes, well, YOU woke me up—" 

"AFTER you slept for over an hour!" 

"Jeez, Relm..." _Demands, demands, demands! It never ends!_ "Fine, but I'm gonna hit the hay early tonight, so don't bother asking me to stay up for this." He trudged over to his armchair, stepping over Interceptor, and flopped down wearily. 

Fortunately for Strago, Relm was satisfied for now. Quietly, she walked towards a small chair by the window and made to sit down...until something suddenly occurred to her. Interceptor could use some exercise, but taking him for a walk would mean missing out on more story. She searched behind Strago's armchair for one of the oft-disappearing doggie toys, and was rewarded with an old rubber ball scarred with tooth marks. She went back to her chair, sat down, and said, "Interceptor—fetch." 

The dog looked up just in time to see the toy go flying across the room. He got up and chased after it. 

The ball nearly knocked a picture off the wall. Strago winced. "Shouldn't you be doing that outside...?" 

"Nah. If I do that, then I won't hear the rest of the story. You'll try to take a nap on me." Relm beamed cunningly at her grandfather. "So I'm getting two things done at once. The dog gets some exercise and I get to hear the rest of daddy's story." 

"If something breaks..." 

"Nothing'll break." Interceptor returned to his mistress, toy in jaw. He dropped it at Relm's feet, waiting for the next throw. 

_I've heard that one before,_ Strago thought. "Where did I leave off, now?" 

"Daddy was in this city outside of Narshe and he made friends with a guy called Gavin and he got the bandanna he always wanted. Then he got scared off by a mean ol' man who was kinda like you." _Whoosh_—the ball flew across the living room again. 

"WHAT? He wasn't anything like me!" 

"Get on with the story and prove it!" 

"Smart mouth."

* * *

Clyde hadn't gone back to his parents' room until evening. So, it really wasn't much of a surprise that neither his mother nor his father had seen the great bandanna until then. 

Before then, the boy had whiled away the remaining hours of the day just goofing off in the alleyways of town. He watched from across Main Street as a family with a lot of kids pulled their cart up to the sprawling porch of a massive hotel. It was a towering structure, with five floors at least. The hotel Clyde's family was staying at had only three. 

He'd given it a thought to befriend one of those kids. Most of them seemed to be around his age. But the more he thought about it, the more he decided he was against it. Heck, when he first got here, he had to figure out his way around on his own. Let those kids do it by themselves, the same way he did. Was Clyde to be some strangers' welcoming committee? Certainly not! They had each other; they were lucky enough in that respect. Maybe after they got some experience with how things went around here, he'd introduce himself then, in his own way. Just not now. 

When he got back home, his mother gave him one quick look and hauled him off to the washroom, as per the usual drill. She turned on the tub faucets and grabbed a washcloth. The entire time, her son was smiling awkwardly, like he was hiding something. 

She stopped bustling about and squinted at him. "Whatcha hidin' from me, huh?" Before her boy could answer her, she saw it—the black bandanna drawn tightly over his head. 

Clyde's smile widened. 

"Where'd you get that?" his mother asked him, hands now resting on her broad hips. She didn't sound angry, just curious. Well, she wouldn't really care if he'd stolen it, would she? No, her husband dabbled in that sort of thing himself, and it was to thievery that the family owed their stay here. Of course his mother wouldn't be upset. She made to remove it, but it was tied on rather tightly, so she had to give it a few good tugs before it finally released her son's head. She studied it curiously. 

"Nice looking thing... A little big on you, though..." 

Her hands glided over the knot that Gavin had tied, and that was when Clyde stopped her. 

"Don't untie that," he said. "I wanna keep it that way. So I can jus' take it on and off." 

His mother shrugged. "If that's the way you want it. All right, off with those dirty clothes."   
  


After his bath, right before he went to sleep, Clyde thought of wearing the bandanna to bed. Maybe doing so would give him good dreams, or a dream about the future, or something good or interesting. He dismissed the idea though not too long after he'd conceived it—that sounded awfully childish anyway. Aside from that, he was still convinced that his new present would give him good luck someday. In fact, he was absolutely sure it would.

* * *

Days came and went and soon Clyde was in the midst of the second week of his stay in Valdebrooke. During that time he and Gavin had grown ever closer and he'd lost his fear of Mr. Abbingway in a sense. In fact, he often used the Abbingways' home as a sanctuary from parental wrath, whenever he managed to invoke such a terrible thing. 

Once he came home terribly late for one reason or another, an excuse trivial enough to escape his memory in later years. He found his parents waiting in the small hotel lobby for him, his father pacing the floor, his mother seated. She was particularly cross, being the heavy hand of the Arrowny family and rather unused to a disobedient only son. Clyde was not one to go about breaking rules unless he was personally opposed to them. 

Well, as soon as he opened the door, and in doing so rung the little tin bell at the top of the entryway, his mother rose from her chair. His father stopped pacing. Oh dear. Clyde hoped to go through uncaught, run up to his family's room, and simply slip into bed, ready to deal with the twenty questions the following morning. He hadn't really done anything like this before, but he wasn't the type to go wasting precious time wishing that he'd done things differently. Wishing never brought about results. Now, he saw his mother coming towards him, a great wave of anger, and he heard his father's voice. 

"Where the hell have you been?" 

And that was all it took. Clyde was off like a spooked moogle, dashing out through the doors and across Stratt Street. The little bell rang, tolling his escape. 

It was very dark outside, but there was help in the form of streetlamps. The lamplighters had passed through hours ago, around sunset. The glow from one of them managed to hit the rippled stretch of canvas that ran down and over the front part of the Abbingways' shop across the street. The canvas even covered the sides where the counter was, coming down from the awning above, but Clyde could sneak under it and hold off there...until... Well, until things got better somehow. He couldn't disobey his instincts, and it was every muscle in his body that told him to flee and hide someplace. 

He snuck under the canvas and was stopped by a seemingly infinite stretch of shadow. He sat down and leaned up against the wall of the house to catch his breath and calm the thumping of his heart, which was driving him crazy. 

Did his parents see him? He didn't know, but he had time to think about it now. Shouldn't he go back? 

He didn't want to, to be honest. He felt safe here, in the dark where he was unseen. Unlike most kids his age, he had no fear of darkness. Darkness could be protective when one wished to use it, and its very essence warded off the weaker people who were either too superficial to look into it or were simply afraid of what they couldn't see. Darkness had many advantages; thus Clyde learned to use it well. 

He thought of course, while he sat. Maybe if he could get Gavin to sympathize with him a little, he'd be able to hide out at his place for a time until his parents—especially his mother—cooled down safely. He wouldn't go back himself unless he was sure he wouldn't end up with a tanned hide. When things got awry, the best thing to do was to leave them alone and come back when they've settled, Clyde knew. Or simply leave and never come back. 

But he had to go back to his folks, didn't he? He was too young to live on his own yet. 

He decided to go wake up Gavin now. He got up and stumbled in the shadows, pounding against the wall with his palms, trying to find the doorway. There were soft sounds coming from inside the building, barely heard, and then the door itself creaked open slowly. A lamp was thrust out, followed by a knife of considerable size, pointed into the surrounding darkness. 

Clyde was startled and fell to the ground with a cry, turning away from the bright, unwanted light. 

"Who's there?" Gavin spoke slowly, swinging the lamp outward in an arc. "Thief! Hit the road or I'll—" 

"It's ME!" said a very disgruntled Clyde Arrowny, picking himself up again. "Let me in! I've gotta hide!" The boy ran through the door and partway into the house, again stopped by sheer darkness. He spun around as Gavin retreated inside, chanting, "Lock the door! Lock the door!" 

"Clyde...? My gods, I thought I was getting robbed or something..." 

The boy said nothing then; Gavin shut the door after one last look around outside, but he did not lock it. 

"What's going on with you?" he began, a twinge of irritation in his voice, something that Clyde quickly discovered he didn't like at all. "It's almost midnight, I think, or a little past—" 

"My parents're gonna KILL me," said the boy. He paused there pensively, worrying his hands. "So I'm hiding from 'em." He averted Gavin's dark eyes. 

Then came the deep voice, from the back of the house. "Who's there?" 

Mr. Abbingway. _He_ would surely be against giving a guilty boy shelter from his own parents. He didn't seem like the type who would find it amusing, nor did he seem like the kind of guy who pitied runaways. 

"It's Clyde," Gavin answered sleepily. 

"Clyde? Here? Now? What time is it? Get some lights on in here." Mr. Abbingway fumbled in the dark for one of the kerosene lamps, not satisfied with the lone one his son was carrying. 

Gavin chuckled. "You're witnessing a once-in-a-lifetime event," he told Clyde. "My father turning on lights." 

Mr. Abbingway's face glowed orange in the lamplight. He said nothing in response to his son's remark, but glowered at him irritably. There was no smile to be found in those fathomless eyes. Presently he turned them on the boy far below him. "All right now...youngster, you give me one good reason why you came barging in here at ten of twelve, getting me out of bed thinking I'm getting robbed..." 

The light of the lamp's flames lent his eyes a very eerie glow, and he looked very frightening to the green-eyed boy below him. Clyde felt very ashamed deep within, but he didn't want to wear it on his face. He climbed to his feet, his expression dark. 

"I stood out too late and forgot what time it was," he said mildly. "An' my parents're gonna give it to me good, so I'm trying to hide." 

He realized another advantage to darkness then—its presence left no room for fear. It felt easier to him to be so forward in such feeble lighting. 

"Troublemaker," Gavin accused, but this time there was humor in his voice. 

"'Troublemaker' is damn right," said Mr. Abbingway. "If they figure out you're in here, we're just gonna have to hand you over. You should've been home at the right time anyway. Your parents must be damned worried out there, lookin' for you. Oughta behave," he added at the end—the final blow. 

Oughta behave? Behave indeed! This was one of the few times when he actually managed to _mis_behave! Most of the time he found his parents' rules to be rather agreeable, so he had little cause to break them. Yet lately... Lately he was feeling rebellious for no reason in particular. He couldn't explain it himself. It just was that rule breaking seemed awfully tempting and he was giving in to it day by day. But Mr. Abbingway wouldn't understand that, would he? No, he was a kid such a very long time ago. He couldn't possibly remember what growing up was like. 

Gavin asked Clyde, "Your parents didn't see you go in here, did they?" 

"I dunno. I wasn't lookin'." 

"Well, they could be out all night lookin' for you. Haven't you thought about that?" Mr. Abbingway pointed out. "You'll have them up until daybreak tryin' to find you. You oughta go back now, or things'll get worse." He turned and headed back to his room, adding over his shoulder, "Gavin, douse the light and lock things up before you go back to bed." Thereafter, his lean figure disappeared into the darkness at the back of the dwelling. 

Clyde swallowed, feeling guilty now. Even if his mother was a beast when she was angry, she didn't deserve to be kept up all night, riddled with worry, prowling the streets for her son. Clyde was all she and her husband had left. And after his older sister's disappearance when she was only two, Clyde's parents had every right to be upset. Mr. Abbingway was right. And considering how his tone had softened somewhat when he last spoke, Clyde was all the more ready to follow his advice. 

That and he was tired. Really tired. He yawned silently as Gavin left the house and stood outside under the canopy of stars. His eyelids were so heavy... Wouldn't it be nice if he could just sleep here until morning, and not have to worry about feeling bad for what he'd done...? He leaned against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor. Then he started to nod off. 

What made him suddenly snap to attention was the sense of abandonment that overtook him. Something inside his head told him that Gavin was no longer near his own home. Had he gone off to look for Clyde's parents? Was he once again doing his friend a favor? It wasn't his mess to fix! Darn it, now Clyde felt even guiltier. He had three people he cared about roaming the streets of Valdebrooke at a time of day when thieves and murderers made their rounds. This time he didn't want to accept Gavin's help or his favors. He felt the urge to settle this thing by himself. Yet until at least one of them found where he was hiding, Clyde was paralyzed. 

So he waited. He waited in the silent house beneath the lamp on the wall, now favoring its bright glow over the concealing blackness. He wanted to be seen now; he wanted this whole thing to just end. 

An eternity passed, or so Clyde thought, as he drifted in and out of sleep. His eyes closed on him when he least expected it and then he'd snap them open again, desperate to stay awake. He was convinced now that Gavin had gone out to find his parents, even if it was simply because he wanted to believe it, because he was too tired to think of any other reason. 

I'll never stay up so late again, he told himself sharply. 

Then the voices came for him. He could hear them skirting the edges of his consciousness, prowling like beasts of prey, waiting for him to drift off at long last. Faint they were at first, but soon they grew stronger, louder. 

"I apologize about this..." 

"...We're just worried..." 

"...It's all right...he's right inside..." 

Clyde recognized those voices, but he didn't bother to give them faces. His eyelids weighed a ton. Footsteps shuffled into the building through the door and he didn't even do so much as budge. 

"Here he is, the little outlaw... Just doesn't want his hide tanned, that's all..." 

A hand came out of nowhere and ruffled Clyde's hair. Then it spoke to him. "You go home with your folks now," it said, though it didn't sound the least bit commanding. "An' next time, when they wanna take a strap to ya, just bite your lip and bear it." There was a smile in the voice then. Clyde liked that. He didn't like being ordered about, but he didn't mind being teased a little. 

Subconsciously, he recognized the voice to be Gavin's, but he never really snapped out of his sleepy trance until his mother walked right up to him, took him by the shoulders, and gave him a good shaking. "You frightened the daylights out of us! Do you hear me?" said she, dark eyes glazy with weariness and yet wild with sudden relief. "Don't you run away like that again, you got that?" 

Oh sure, Clyde told himself he'd never stay out late again, but not run away? No, he couldn't promise that. Running away was his defense from the world when all else failed, his mind tried to explain. 

But he felt strangely agreeable at the moment. "I won't do it again," he spoke simply. He sounded very calm against the backdrop of his mother's tumult. Yes, he'd never stay out late, but he might run away. In fact, that was probably one thing about her son that Clyde's mother could actually foresee. 

His mother's eyes went blank and she said nothing for a time. Clyde figured that she expected him to whine about it, but he declined the opportunity. Not now, not when every muscle of his wiry frame was crying for a bed to lie in. 

"See to it that you don't," she responded at last, looking him up and down the way she usually did at the end of the day. "I suppose I won't be able to give you a good scrubbin' tonight..." 

"Nah, too late for that." Edmund Arrowny's voice drifted in from outside, where he was leaning against the doorframe, obviously exhausted. "Let's just get 'im home." He turned and headed out, in the process managing to knock into something that clattered against the wall. "The hell...?" 

Clyde's mother took her boy into her arms and proceeded to carry him out of the house. She regarded the noise from her husband absently. "Ed, what are you doing?" 

"There's a sword on the wall here... I just saw it... Nice lookin' thing..." 

Ah yes, Clyde thought, leaning against his mother's shoulder. THE sword, the souvenir-from-Narshe sword. Seems like his father was taking a liking to it too. 

When mother and son were out of the building and under the shop awning, Clyde's father turned around. "Hey, is the shopkeeper still up? How much is this sword?" 

"Since when did price matter to you?" his wife teased him. "C'mon, it's late." 

Since Clyde's mother was facing the way of the exit, she didn't catch her husband's furtive smile behind her. Her son did, however. He wasn't going to steal that sword, was he? He couldn't do that; this place wasn't just the home of any shopkeeper; it was the home of the shopkeeper whom Clyde had befriended. That made a world of difference. 

The boy's head poked up, ready to say something, when suddenly his mother turned around, obviously wondering why her husband wasn't following her. "Edmund!" she hissed, her voice barely above a whisper. "You take your hands off that thing!" 

"What? What was I doing?" Clyde picked up his whispered reply. 

"You were gonna nick it," Clyde's mother told him sharply. "Weren't you?" 

"I was going to do no such thing! I was merely admiring its craftsmanship..." 

"Ed, you don't know a blasted thing about swords. I'll not have you nickin' things from these people. Not after what they just got done doing for us." 

"If I had the money, I'd—" 

"Edmund." Clyde's mother's voice had become a warning growl. It was the same tone that she used with her boy whenever he persisted on misbehaving. 

"All right, let's go." 

The small family ducked under the canvas surrounding the Abbingways' shop and emerged onto Stratt Street once more. The streetlamps lit the way back home, which was no more than a hop, skip, and a jump across the roadway. From his position resting against his mother's shoulder, Clyde lazily watched a few passersby skittering about here and there, sticking to the shadows of buildings. The agenda on their minds was obvious. Thieves, just like his father, and his mother to a lesser extent. Just like he himself. 

Yet the small outskirts town of Valdebrooke was much different from Zozo. In Zozo the thieves didn't wait for the cover of darkness; they had no need to do so. So much criminal activity went on at all hours of the day there and it was funny how quickly roles could be reversed. Predator could become prey the moment after he swiped something valuable. 

Clyde had never felt especially unsafe or frightened in Zozo's streets. He was used to them. But this quiet, this relative peace in this small temporary town, well—that suited him so much better. He could let his guard down here and relax a little; he could—

* * *

_Whack!_ The rubber doggie toy crashed into a picture frame against he opposite wall, smacking into its corner and tilting it toward the right. Strago had seen this, and waited for a moment for the picture to fall. Fortunately, it had proved him wrong and remained in its place, however crooked it now was. 

"Relm!" he barked, but his adopted granddaughter took little notice. _"Nothing'll break," my foot— _

Relm's reply was a simple "Oops!" 

Interceptor caught the wild throw and took the ball back to his mistress.

* * *

Not too long after his parents had gotten him back to the family's room, Clyde was asleep and the whole incident had been brought to a close. He never did stay out so late again, but he was already far into the habit of fleeing the scene when things got rough. Old habits might die hard, but those solidly ingrained would never see death at all. 

Toward the end of the Arrownys' second week at Valdebrooke, the five-month anniversary of Narshe came up. Clyde was quick to see that celebrating the Silver City's latest month of business was made into a great spectacle by the townspeople, even those who, like he, lived in the outskirts towns, the towns that came and went like the wind. 

He had left his hotel around mid-afternoon. He'd heard the commotion out on Stratt Street from his room above and decided that it was worthy of his attention. Besides, he had nothing better to do. 

So he stepped out, off the porch of the hotel and into the street, into the midst of the bustling folk here and there, their arms loaded with boxes of things and paper decorations. Far down Stratt Street, off to Clyde's right, were a group of people stringing up a white banner, with great red letters on it that read:

Narshe: Queen of the Boomtowns

And below that:

5 months

The "5 months" part was in smaller lettering, but Clyde could make it out. Five months... He wondered then if it would be another five months until his family was able to get into that so-called Queen of the Boomtowns. He wondered if it might be even longer than that, when Narshe would be one full year old, or a year and a half. Or two years... 

When the Arrownys first came to Valdebrooke, Clyde was a bit disappointed that he couldn't see Narshe right away. But now, after he had grown so close to Gavin and his father, he decided that he was happy here, in this temporary little village. Sure, in another two years it might not even exist anymore, but it existed now, and Clyde was there now, and so were the people he cared about. He didn't want to leave them behind. 

So let Narshe turn five months old, he thought decidedly. Let it turn fifty months old! It didn't matter; he didn't care to go there. There was nothing in Narshe for him. 

He turned away from the banner down the street and toward the Abbingways' shop just ahead, just a few feet away. As he came closer, he saw it himself: No one was tending to it. There was no one behind the little store's counter. Where was Gavin then? And his father? 

Clyde's eyes searched up and down Stratt Street. They had to be somewhere out here, one of them at least. Everybody seemed to be outside, as many people as there were who lived on this road. So many faces, just rushing by... All of a sudden, Clyde became acutely aware of how short he was compared to all those grownups. He saw very few kids his age running about. 

And a pang of loneliness hit him. He was alone out here, in the midst of that busy street, with people going almost completely out of their way to avoid a collision with him. The midday sun beat down hotly upon his black bandanna. He hated the feeling he was getting—that of vulnerability. Strength _did_ come in numbers after all, or so it seemed. 

Something tugged on his bandanna then and took him by surprise. Clyde turned to his left, facing the direction of the pull, a bit irritated, just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of Gavin passing him by. His arms were full with a wooden crate filled with all kinds of flashy-looking things, most of them red in color and looking rather sharp and sleek in the sunlight. Clyde's indignant expression softened. Gavin quickly indicated that Clyde should follow him with a flick of his head; the boy was on his trail in the blink of an eye. 

He caught up with his friend at the counter of the Abbingways' shop, where the crate was placed on the once-abandoned counter. 

Gavin sighed heavily, then pulled out a handkerchief from one of his pockets and dabbed at his forehead. "Thought you might be interested in what I've got here." He was smiling mischievously. 

Clyde moved closer to the counter, but when it became evident that he wasn't quite tall enough to peer into the crate, Gavin's hand dove inside and pulled out some of its contents. 

It was one of the shiny red things, shaped just like a rocket. It could only be one thing. 

"Fireworks!" The word fell right out of Clyde's mouth. He reached for it automatically, but Gavin raised his hand high enough to keep it out of his little friend's reach. He shook his head dismissively. 

"Not yet. This evening. I went to Skietz; it's a town southeast of here. Someone down there bought a half a shipment of fireworks from Nikeah, so I figure I go take advantage of the discount. I coulda bought some from Narshe, but they're so expensive..." 

Fireworks. Clyde was still several sentences back. Gavin said something about another town, didn't he? And then he mentioned Narshe again. Ah, who cared about Narshe? Fireworks! There were going to be fireworks! 

"Will ya let me light one later then?" Clyde asked, going to great lengths to disguise his eagerness. If he came off sounding mature enough, he'd surely have a better chance of hearing yes. Oh, but he was practically bouncing up and down in his spot! He couldn't help it. _Fireworks!_ He'd never really seen them before. Zozo wasn't the kind of village that cared about celebrations; heck, there wasn't anything to celebrate there, period. 

"Hmm. That depends," was Gavin's answer. He'd turned his attention away from Clyde now, back to the rocket in his hand. "I can't really guarantee anything, since supposedly there's a committee here in this town that's gonna run everything... Oh, I almost forgot." He placed the single firework back in the crate and faced Clyde fully then. "There's someone I want you to meet later on. She should be here just in time for the fireworks." 

Gavin's eyes were positively glowing. But as usual, he only gave Clyde half of his good news, leaving it up to the boy to ask questions to get the rest of it out of him. Why Gavin did that was something Clyde would never figure out. 

But it was a _she_, the boy noted. A girl. A girl_friend_? Clyde didn't want to ask outright. The idea made him uncomfortable. "Who is she?" he asked at last, trying not to sound entirely disinterested. All of a sudden the much-anticipated fireworks slipped his mind. 

"My fiancée." Gavin threw a smile Clyde's way. 

Fiancée? Clyde felt a bit relieved. At least he didn't say girlfriend. "What's a fiancée?" 

Gavin was still smiling. "Someone you're gonna get married to. In a few years, I reckon you'll be getting one of those yourself." He winked. 

Clyde felt despondent. If his whole expression had fallen flat there, he wouldn't have cared less. A fiancée was apparently even _worse_ than Gavin having just an ordinary girlfriend. He was going to get _married_! Why didn't he ever say anything about that before? 

It dawned on the boy then: Gavin was much older than he was. Clyde often forgot about that fact. Gavin and he got along so well that age had never really interfered with their friendship. Gavin was an older brother in Clyde's eyes. Somehow, knowing that this "big brother" had a close relationship with someone else out there alienated Clyde. He wasn't used to sharing anything, possessions or people. He was used to having everything to himself, being an only child. It was a harsh lesson to learn, that nobody in life was totally exclusive to one person. Consequently, it hurt. Badly. 

But apparently Clyde had masked his bruised feelings very well, because Gavin asked no intrusive questions right away. "I know you'll like her," he assured the boy. "She lives in Matrese, right on the other side of the mountains where Kohlingen is. She left to come here about three weeks ago, before your family even came here. I got a telegram that said she'd make it here by tonight. I'm hoping she isn't too tired by then not to come. ...Something wrong?" 

What? Oh, he asked if something was wrong. Wrong indeed. His words of earlier had merely gone in one of Clyde's ears and out the other. As far as Clyde went, he was back in the middle of Stratt Street, suddenly seized with that terrible notion of being completely by himself. 

He turned to face Gavin, squinting up at him suspiciously. "You never said anything about havin' a fiancée before," he stated matter-of-factly, and there was a twinge of bitterness in his tone. It probably showed up in his eyes, too. He would have tried to conceal it better, as was his nature, but this time he just _couldn't_. He felt too...disappointed. And all alone, even if he was standing beside such a good friend. 

That friend belonged to someone else. He was going to get married, and move away, and... 

"Oh, well, she never really came up," came the response, as Gavin scratched the nape of his neck the way he always did when he was uncertain about something. "I suppose I should've told you sooner... I can't think of why I forgot... But don't worry. You'll see her tonight. You'll like her, I know you will." He gave the side of Clyde's jaw a gentle nudge with his fist. 

Funny, Gavin saw nothing wrong with this whole thing. He saw absolutely nothing wrong with having a girlfriend—rather, a _fiancée_—and a best friend at the same time. Clyde turned away, unresponsive, his eyes now at his feet. Was it really wrong to expect someone to just be close to you and not to anyone else? 

"Hey, I said don't worry about it! You look upset." 

"S'nuthin'. Jus' wonderin'." 

"About what?" 

"About lighting those fireworks later." He sent Gavin a forced smile.

* * *

"Awww, poor dad," Relm cooed, though it wasn't entirely out of sympathy. _Hello? A lot of my friends have boyfriends and ya don't see me griping about it! Sheesh! _

Never thought daddy was so possessive... 

By now she had tired of playing catch with Interceptor, much to Strago's relief. But the same didn't go for the dog, which lay curled up at Relm's feet, giving her puppy eyes, hoping she'd give the chew toy just one more good throw. 

Strago dismissed Relm's remark. "Ahh, don't worry about that. You'll hear what happens next, once he meets her. He has a major change of heart, let me tell you..."

* * *

The day drew to a close. By then, Clyde's parents had found out about the upcoming fireworks and Clyde's mother wanted to go as family, just the three of them, to watch it all play out. Just like her son, she'd never seen fireworks before herself. 

Ordinarily, Clyde would have been given to some sort of small rebellion. He would've insisted that he'd rather be with his friend than with his family, and that he was going to see the fireworks with Gavin and that would be that. 

But such was not the case. Instead, he'd spent the entire time roaming around town, keeping within safe distance of the hotel where his parents were staying, just walking around and watching people prepare for the festivities. Suddenly moving to Narshe no longer affected him. He'd already lost a good friend to some lady who'd arrive in just a few hours. Oh, sure, Clyde would miss Gavin's _father_ terribly once his family found space in Narshe, but he wouldn't miss Gavin, not anymore. Gavin had somebody else, someone who wasn't a friend of Clyde's. Some stranger, never mind the fact that Gavin knew this...what was that word..._fiancée_ for a much longer time than he knew Clyde. Being as young as he was, Clyde could only see the world through his own eyes. And what he saw was abandonment. Some faceless person had crept up from some forgotten space in Gavin's mind and would no doubt interrupt the current friendship. Clyde wasn't looking forward to the fireworks. 

But his mother wanted to go, and he was rather amazed at her excitement about the whole thing. Even Clyde's father expressed some halfhearted interest in the upcoming spectacle. The anticipation was hard to resist. 

That evening found Clyde by his parents' side rather than Gavin's, sitting in the field that flanked Valdebrooke and stretched on for miles until it reached the outskirts of Narshe, at the base of the mountains. In that field the fireworks would begin. 

His father was on his left and his mother on his right. Ahead of him were rows and rows of heads, those of citizens who'd left especially early to get spots that were closest to the fireworks all the way up front. A makeshift stage, or what appeared to be a stage, sans curtains, had been erected earlier that day. A good stiff breeze could've blown the rickety structure over, but the weather was fair and the night sky exceptionally clear. The stars had no veils of cloud to hide behind; each one was presented to the gazer in their full brilliant splendor, like a diamond straight from a mineshaft, rough and bright and fresh all at once. 

Up on the stage, men were loading boxes of things and making all sorts of little preparations that only served to make the gathering edgier. Everyone in Valdebrooke must have come, but they would all have to wait. The fireworks would not be ready so quickly. 

Twenty minutes came and passed, and everyone was still waiting. The gathering grew restless. What was the delay? 

Somewhere far behind Clyde's family, at least two rows back, stood up and shouted, "What is the friggin' holdup?" It was a man, an older one judging by the tone of voice. 

Back up on the stage, heads raised and men stopped their activities. One of them shouted back a reply, but apparently projecting his voice wasn't his forte; Clyde couldn't make out a thing he said. 

Edmund, Clyde's father, burst out laughing. He nudged his son and spoke to his family in a voice almost too loud to pass for a whisper, "Did you hear that guy? No patience at all! Keep your pants on, buddy. Hell, I ain't never seen fireworks and you don't see me gettin' up and whining about holdups." 

Clyde's mother shushed him. 

Irritated though he was at his father's finding humor in the event, Clyde managed not to say anything. Everything was annoying him now. This should have been a perfect evening—heck, this was the first time he'd see fireworks! But he had too much on his mind. His friendship with Gavin was dying, or so he thought. 

Five more minutes passed, and finally the fireworks seemed to be getting underway. There was a big ceremony before the first one was to go off, and it started with a speech about Narshe's five-month anniversary. And unexpectedly, Valdebrooke's appointed marshal had publicly handed out notices to those families who were lucky enough to earn living space in Narshe on that celebrated day. He called out their names, group by group (or one by one, in some cases). However, though the Arrownys listened intently, their name had not come up at all. 

"Figures," Edmund quipped. "Never thought I was lucky." 

Figures, thought Clyde. Two bad things in one day. And he never considered himself to be a lucky kid, not in the least. So much for the power of the almighty bandanna. 

"Edmund, you're too negative," Clyde's mother answered him. "They'll find some space for us one of these days. You just wait an' see." 

"Yeah, probably just in time for Narshe's five-_year_ anniversary." 

The list of names wasn't long, and after each was announced a few people in the crowd took it upon themselves to initiate some sort of congratulatory applause. Of course not everybody took this up; after all, most of those in the crowd were in the same position as Clyde's family. They were listening for their names, too. There wasn't much happiness for the lucky people listed. 

After all the formalities were out of the way, the crowd hushed up and the fuse of the first firework was lit. 

And darn it, Clyde couldn't see. Most of the people sitting in front of him were grownups and all of them were too tall, or at least they were from his viewpoint. He knew, though, that if he stood up fully then someone behind him would end up telling him to sit back down. 

He fidgeted. Stupid evening, stupid fireworks, stupid name list, stupid tall people, stupid Gavin, stupid..._fiancée_ of Gavin's... 

There was a high-pitched shriek, something far off and distant. The crowd perked up. 

All the way over in Narshe, miles away and barely viewable, a rocket had gone up into the sky and burst into a million different pieces of green and gold. 

"Wooooow!" exclaimed a little voice in the crowd, a voice that was instantly quieted by its mother. 

Clyde watched with wide eyes. His first firework. 

But it came from _Narshe_, he thought afterward. What was wrong with the fireworks _here_, where he was? 

"I'll be damned, so that's what they look like," Edmund said, half in jest. "Now why the hell didn't it come from _here_?" 

"Will you be _still_?" his wife hissed. 

There was a moment of confused quiet before the crowd got upset. Then came all the complaints. 

"The hell're you people doin' up there?" 

"Where're OUR fireworks?" 

People started to get to their feet. The town marshal had fled the stage far ahead, most likely anticipating a riot. While all this was going on, Narshe continued to fire rocket after rocket into the air. Clyde, looking up above the press of people around him, couldn't help but find the distant fireworks to be very beautiful...even if he wasn't seeing them up close. All those colors, all that glitter, all that noise, the kind that made one want to leap to one's feet and scream with excitement. 

"Ed, I think we should leave," Clyde's mother started, looking about herself. "This is nuthin' more than one big mess..." 

"Yeah, you're probably right... Well, at least we got to see _one_ firework..." 

That quickly, Clyde was pulled back down into reality. Leave? Who said anything about him leaving? He wasn't going anywhere! Those fireworks had chased away all his bad thoughts. He felt so much happier now just watching them. He'd stay in the field until sunrise, if that were how long Narshe would be lighting rockets. He didn't care. They made him happy; they made him forget his troubles. Leaving was not an option. 

He felt his mother roughly grab his hand in the darkness. "C'mon, let's head home." She turned and began to pull her son along...but Clyde had already dug in his heels. He wasn't going anywhere. 

His mother looked over her shoulder. "What're you standing there like that for? There aren't going to be any fireworks, Clyde. There ain't no use in standin' out here like this, not in this crowd." Already the mob around the Arrowny family had grown wild with disappointment. Through the masses, Clyde could see several disgruntled strings of people weaving their way out, heading back to the town. 

"But there're fireworks from Narshe," Clyde pointed out calmly. He wouldn't make a bit of headway with his mother if he screamed and cried about things, and besides, that wasn't his nature anyway. Clyde Arrowny didn't complain; he waited patiently until he got his way. The bandanna on his head was proof that patience always won out. 

Edmund turned around and looked up. "Kid's gotta point there," he conceded. Another firework from Narshe had gone up, trailing a great stream of fire behind it, until it reached its bursting point, where it became yet another rough circle of dancing flecks of red, shimmering like a patch of faraway stars. 

Clyde's mother chewed on her lip and her brow furrowed. "I really don't want to stay out here... Lookit these people... They're outta control..." 

"Just like back in Zozo, huh?" Edmund smiled at her. He paused momentarily, then said, "Know what? I think I'll stay here too. Keep an eye on our boy." He ruffled Clyde's hair. 

Clyde looked up at his father, his face beaming. Well, there was no way his mother could say no to that, right? At the thought, he turned and faced his other parent, awaiting her response. 

She still lingered, looking hesitant. "An' I'm gonna go back to our room and be up all night waitin' for the two a' you to get on back..." 

"Why all night? These fireworks'll probably be over in a couple of hours," Edmund argued. "C'mon. I'll keep an eye on him. Don't stay up for us. We'll be back before you know it anyway." He looked down at his son. "We should probably get outta this crowd and move up further, so we can get a better look." 

Clyde, whose hand was still trapped within his mother's, nodded eagerly. He had a good mind to thank his father over and over again, but he kept quiet like he always did. Thank yous and apologies were not on Clyde's list of frequently said things. 

At last his mother let him go. "Fine. All right. But I can't promise you that I won't be up waitin'." She stroked her son's hair affectionately, then told her husband, "You keep an eye on him, an' make sure he don't wander off." It was then that she leaned forward, over her son, to give her husband a peck on the lips. 

Clyde's mother wasn't the demonstrative type, not when it came to affection anyway. She wasn't the kind of mother who couldn't refrain from hugging and kissing her son. It was probably from her that Clyde got his hands-off approach to people. He himself wasn't much for great displays of affection. He watched his mother curiously, wondering what could have motivated her to do what she did. 

After that kiss, she was off through the angered masses. Edmund spoke to his son, "Let's go," then reached for his hand and the two were off. 

The crowd seemed to be more densely packed now that everyone was in an uproar. Nevertheless, and despite having been knocked into so many different people as his father led the way through, Clyde did manage to feel a quick tug on his bandanna and pick up the faintest calling of his name. 

He stopped in his tracks and turned around, searching for the source of the tug. He recognized the voice. 

Up ahead, his father stopped as well. "Hey, you wanna get out of here or what? Let's go." He tried to resume leading his son off, but Clyde didn't move. 

"Someone's callin' for me," he told his father. 

"Who's callin' for ya?" 

"A friend." Clyde paused there, deciding what he should do. Did he really want to see Gavin after all that time he spent moping that day? After he'd practically buried his friendship with that man? And heck, he probably had that fiancée of his with him. Did Clyde want to meet her after agonizing over her for so long? All his misery came rushing back to the fore of his thoughts. Still, dancing somewhere in the back, were those happy thoughts of watching the fireworks, never mind what troubles the world had offered him. 

And behind those thoughts was curiosity. Gavin's fiancée... What was she like? What did she look like? And what if she was a nice lady after all that worrying, all that disappointment? 

Clyde turned to his father and spoke very plainly, "I'm gonna go stay here, with my friend." His tone conveyed nothing less than a decision made, a decision that he would stand by if challenged. Fortunately for him, his father was a very indulgent parent, the opposite of a mother who was the Arrowny family's iron fist. 

Edmund sighed. "Where's this friend of yours? I don't see 'im." 

Clyde pointed to the area where he'd heard Gavin's voice. "He's back there. I'll show 'im to ya." 

Now the roles were reversed, with Clyde leading the way back and his father in tow. The cries for Clyde's name grew louder and louder until at last their source was plainly visible. 

There, still seated on the grass of the field, was Clyde's closest friend. Same shaggy brown hair, same lanky frame and lean shoulders...but the glow in his hazel eyes was merrier than usual. 

The reason for that was seated to his left, close beside him. She was slender, something that even her elegant white dress couldn't hide. From under the brim of a wide straw-hat fell very fair locks, golden perhaps; it was hard to tell in the dark. She sat cross-legged, looking up at him, curiosity etched all over her face. 

But it wasn't the prettiness of the lady that softened Clyde's outlook. This lady, this fiancée, had the prettiest pair of eyes in the whole world. Their color was indeterminate, but their effect could hardly be dulled by nighttime. They were dazzling, even glitterier than the fireworks, and many, many times as captivating. They told many stories about how she was inside. 

So this was Gavin's fiancée? This was the lady who would ruin Clyde's friendship? 

"Hey, we meet again!" Clyde's father broke the moment by leaning between his son and Gavin's fiancée, to shake hands with the storekeeper who'd sheltered his boy on that night when he ran away. "I don't think I caught your name..." 

"It's Gavin," came the reply. "Oh, and this here is my fiancée, Clare Barrows. Clare, this is Mr. Arrowny." 

Clyde peered around his father's shoulder. He saw Clare extend her hand to him, a sweet smile on her perfect lips. His eyes flicked back to Gavin, who was watching the two get acquainted. His eyes were doing absolutely nothing to hide his happiness. 

Afterward, Gavin had turned to Clyde and said, "This is the 'fiancée' you've been hearing so much about." He paused there and smiled, all mirth and nothing less. "Clyde, this is Clare. Clare, Clyde." 

Clare smiled again and gave Clyde her hand. Clyde took it, still a little awed over how lovely she looked, then snapped out of his trance and gave it a good shaking. Clare's eyes widened, but Gavin and Edmund chuckled good-naturedly. 

"Not quite how you greet a lady, son," Clyde's father rebuked him, but it was only in jest. 

It was then that Clare finally spoke. Her mouth formed a little "o," but the rest of what she said Clyde could not hear. She had an awfully low voice, just like that man on the stage a few moments ago. The look on her face, however, revealed the nature of her reply: She didn't mind shaking hands at all. 

"So where were you two off to?" Gavin asked Clyde and his father. 

"Well, we were gonna move away from this crowd to watch the fireworks from Narshe, since they're having trouble here," Clyde's father explained. 

"Ah, they'll get 'em to work sooner or later," Gavin said confidently. "C'mon, why don't you both sit here with us? They'll get 'em started eventually." 

"You sure sound confident," said Edmund somewhat doubtfully, but he took a seat anyway. He left some room to his left for his son to sit, where he would be sandwiched between his father and Gavin. 

Clyde saw this and immediately objected. "Nah, I wanna sit next to Clare," he said, shaking his head. 

Gavin's eyes grew large. "Oh? All right then..." He got up and moved to his right and Clyde took his place in between him and Clare. 

Already the crowd had begun to thin out, impatient for fireworks and downright disappointed that there were none that night. Regardless, Gavin remained completely optimistic that they would go off. 

As Clyde sat down beside Gavin's fiancée Clare, he saw her eyes fall on his oversized bandanna with interest. When the boy was seated at last, she took the opportunity to speak to him. 

There was still noise, still ruckus from the leaving people and those who were, like Gavin and those with him, insisting on staying. Clare faced Clyde and said something in that barely audible voice of hers. 

Clyde didn't hear her. "What?" 

Clare leaned down further and repeated her words. This time Clyde managed to pick up a few of them, but still not enough to make sense of them. 

"I can't hear you," he told her, trying his best not to sound rude. 

Clare chuckled a little, apparently out of frustration, and leaned down very close to Clyde's ear. "That bandanna suits you," she said. 

It was such a simple remark, something that Clyde would have absorbed thoughtlessly had it come from another's mouth. But Clare put genuine admiration into her words. Maybe she just wanted to please? Perhaps, but combined with the way her voice sounded—gentle and light, fragile, just as Clyde imagined it to be—it made him smile. She sounded as beautiful as she looked. No wonder Gavin looked so happy next to her. She seemed like the nicest lady on earth. 

Clyde's meeting with Clare had dispelled all his earlier worries. All of a sudden, just like that, in that quick way that all children are prone to, he felt better about everything. He and Gavin were still friends and would continue to be friends and his fiancée, this pretty woman named Clare, could very well be another friend to add to the list, even if he had such a hard time hearing her speak. Everything was going to be okay to the little pessimist boy in the big bandanna. Fireworks? Oh yeah, well, he already saw a few and that was fine with him. They didn't matter anymore; this incident had made him far happier than they ever did. 

But as if to remind him that they were still there, and that they were the main reason for Clyde's sitting there to begin with, another one had gone screeching into the sky. And it hadn't come from Narshe. 

"Hey! Would you believe it? Finally!" Clyde's father commented, eyes fixed on the sky. 

Gavin chuckled. "I told you they'd get 'em to work!" He leaned back and shot a look at his fiancée. "Whaddo ya think of 'em, Clare? They anything compared to what you got in Matrese?" 

Clare shot him a sly look, then made as if to speak. But then, as if she remembered that her delicate voice wouldn't be heard over all the noise in the field, she closed her mouth quickly. 

The sound of a nearby firework had managed to draw some of the leaving people back to their spots. Those who had remained in the field had scrambled up front to get a better view. Gavin coaxed everyone to get up and led them closer as well. They stopped several feet away from the makeshift stage, however, as Clare had told her fiancé that she thought the fireworks' noise was unbearable at too close a range. 

So all four of them—Clyde and his father, and Gavin and Clare—took their new places closer to the fireworks. This time, Clyde was at the end of the row, next to Gavin, with nothing but empty space to his right. 

Until a large family with a whole bunch of kids plopped down on the grass there, but Clyde hardly took notice of them. 

Gavin turned to him not too long after everyone was seated. "I toldja you'd like her." He grinned, and Clyde felt compelled to mirror the gesture...using his trademark corner-of-the-mouth leer, of course. 

"Yeah, well...she's a nice lady." 

"Yeah." Gavin leaned back then on his elbows, stretching his legs out before himself, taking advantage of the empty space. "I consider myself a lucky guy." 

Clyde considered himself lucky as well, even if it was just for that night. 

One by one, more fireworks raced into the night sky. Clyde had lost track of what time it was, but he didn't care. Time seemed so unimportant at that moment compared to how utterly thrilled he was. He had nothing to worry about anymore. 

Let everyone else celebrate Narshe's anniversary; to Clyde, those fireworks marked the death of all his ill feelings.

* * *

"All right, that's it for now," Strago said, ending that portion of his old friend's tale. "What time is it...? Whoa, four o'clock! That fast?" 

The old mage expected his granddaughter to make some sort of smart comment, or any kind of remark really, but she didn't. Curious, he turned to look at her and found her sitting on the small chair next to him, her face still. She looked...touched. 

_Whatever got to her like that? _

Heh, well, if that little scene did it, then wait 'til she hears the rest of the story... 

"I'm gonna finish my nap now, if you don't mind," he said, rising from his chair and stretching his old limbs. "Relm? Relm! You there?" 

Oh, she was there, to be sure, but she was a little lost in thought. _That was so nice. I like stories with happy endings, even if it really isn't over yet._ "Hmmm. Well, that was a nice ending," she said conclusively, sliding off her chair. She looked at the clock. "Four, eh? Guess I should go take Interceptor for a walk..." 

Her hazel eyes dropped to the dog that had just narrowly missed being stepped on, as it darted out from under her feet. His tail was wagging furiously. After so many months under Strago's roof, he'd learned to recognize such words as "walk"...and those words that sounded like walk. Talk, for instance... 

Strago shook his head. "Did you hear a word I said to you? I'm finishin' my nap now, so I don't want any interruptions." 

"You're still gonna have to finish daddy's story," Relm said pointedly. "C'mon Interceptor." She led him to the door and pushed it open. "I'll be back in five minutes, tops! Later, Gramps!" And just like that, she left. 

Strago's eyes lingered on the doorway, watching the young girl depart. Something about reliving Clyde's past got to him, almost in the same way as that one small part of his story got to his granddaughter, but the old mage couldn't quite put a finger on what aspect of it touched him the most. 

_Maybe it's the ending. Or the truth of it all. I'm still not sure if Relm's old enough to take it... _

He shook his head again, as if to banish those thoughts. Then he turned and made his way upstairs. 

At the top he made to head to his room, bypassing Relm's along the way. Her door was open wide, giving her grandfather a fleeting glimpse of something on her bed. 

_Another drawing, no doubt. _

And as usual, he was curious about what it was. 

_Ah well, she ain't here now. She won't mind if I have a little look._

Strago crept into the girl's room, his eyes fixed on that sketchpad abandoned atop her bed. When he was at her bedside, he reached for the pad and turned it so that he could see it from the right angle. There, on its formerly white surface, nestled amidst a jumble of stray pencil strokes, was the face of a young boy wearing a large black bandanna. 

Strago smiled. 


	3. Adieu, Adieu, and a Change of Scenery

_Wow, this took way too long too. Sorry about the wait; I've been favoring FF7 work over this. _

I'm cutting down on the length of the chapters. Hell, chapter 2 was 10,000 words! All successive chapters should be somewhere in the 5000-7000-word range from now on, so they'll be easier to digest. 

Elihice - Clyde's going to be a boy for a couple more chapters, since I have a few things planned for him 'til he becomes a man. Don't worry, the wait shouldn't be too long (er...I hope). 

Ok, on with the story.   
  
  
  
  


III - Adieu, Adieu, and a Change of Scenery

  
  


Relm hadn't even been gone for five minutes. She was back with a well-walked Interceptor and entered her home to find the family room empty. "Hey, Grandpa! Where are ya?" 

No answer. 

_Oh yeah, that's right, he's probably napping now._

And apparently she hadn't woken him up, so she led Interceptor inside and went upstairs. The dog followed her loyally. She entered her room with a mind to finish that drawing she'd started earlier. It surprised her to find it sitting askew on her bed, facing her doorway. That hadn't been where she'd left it the last time. 

_Hmmm. He could've just **asked** if he wanted to see it. I woulda showed it to him._

She knew her grandfather had been looking in on her work again. It didn't bother her; she was proud of what she did so far. 

Interceptor took a seat on the floor while Relm climbed onto her bed and resumed her work. She reached for her pencil, glancing at the clock on her wall. 

_I'll give 'im another hour._

Then she got down to work again.

* * *

A little after five o'clock that afternoon, Strago was awake. Relm was waiting downstairs in the family room for him, sketchpad on her lap and pencil in her hand. 

Strago saw her as he was descending the stairs and started griping automatically. "Oh, wait, lemme guess: you want me to get on with the story, don't you?" 

"Actually, I was wonderin' if we could just take a little walk around," Relm responded simply, not looking up from her work. Her drawing was almost finished. "You know, just stroll around an' get some fresh air before dinner..." 

"Got sick of hearin' me tell it to you indoors?" her grandfather asked slyly. _I know you all too well, Relm._

Relm nodded, grinning, finally looking up from her sketch. "Yup. You're a regular mind reader, grandpa." She got up and left her pencil and sketchpad on the chair she'd been sitting on. 

"Where's the dog?" Strago asked, watching his granddaughter make for the door. 

"Upstairs. He's all tired out---_which_," she added hastily, spinning around, "is an excuse that YOU don't have, since you just got done nappin' for over an hour now." She looked at him cunningly. "And besides, old people do need their exercise." She reached for the doorknob. 

"'Old people'?" Strago huffed. "You see here...!" 

"Oh, c'mon! You're not gonna try and deny _that_, are you?" 

Strago fell silent. _Little brat._ He leered at her. "All right, let's go then." 

Relm opened the door. It was still oppressively hot outside, but the blue sky had turned cloudy. Relm took no notice. "You _do_ remember where you left off, right?" 

"I think so. It was the fireworks, right? Narshe's five-month anniversary?" 

Relm's eyes grew wide. "Hey, you remembered!" 

"Yeah, well, this _old man_ still has a few tricks up his sleeve." He turned around abruptly then and crossed the room, opened a closet, and removed a dark over-robe with a hood. "Just in case it rains." 

They locked up and headed down the path to the main road of Thamasa, where Strago began the next part of his old friend's story.

-----

After Narshe's five-month anniversary, after the fireworks and the meeting with Gavin's pretty fiancée, Clyde's life took a turn for the better. Days came and went and soon turned into weeks. During one of those weeks, Gavin had left for Matrese to pay Claire yet another little visit. That left Clyde alone with Mr. Abbingway, though he didn't know it just yet. 

He went to pay his usual visit to their little shop across the street. He found Mr. Abbingway there at the counter, leaning over it, hands folded on top. By now Clyde had lost most of his fear of the man. "Hey, where's Gavin?" 

The great dark eyes of his friend's father fell upon him slowly. "He's off to Matrese to visit Claire. Won't be back for a couple of weeks, I reckon." 

Clyde's face didn't betray his surprise, but his voice did. "Coupla weeks? How many?" 

"Don't know," said Mr. Abbingway. "Considering it takes a week or so to travel from here to Matrese... I don't know. Maybe a month, at least." 

A month? One whole month without Gavin? Clyde's spirits fell, though not entirely. He could wait; he was patient enough. He'd mark the days off on his parents' calendar. 

Silence fell then, between the two. During that time, the main street of Valdebrooke bustled with its many residents. Streamers and old banners from the celebration of weeks ago still littered the curbs, and it seemed to Clyde that more people had moved into the small outskirts town---it looked more crowded than ever, and that surely couldn't be attributed to visitors. 

Suddenly, out of the blue, Mr. Abbingway's deep voice rang out. "Do me a favor, youngster." He shifted and stood upright, making for the door to his home. "I'm goin' in to get a cigar. Won't be too long, but I want you to keep an eye on things real quick for me. You can do that, can'tcha?" He fixed Clyde with a meaningful gaze, almost hypnotic in its power. 

Clyde blinked once, twice, for a brief moment bound in the grip of that almighty stare. Then his thoughts wriggled free. Of course he would watch this little shop! It'd be a piece of cake. So he nodded. "Yup." 

Mr. Abbingway nodded back. "Good." He opened the door and disappeared into his dark dwelling, leaving Clyde standing where he was. He couldn't see over the tall counter, not very well at least, but a tall stool leaning against the wall behind him provided the extra height he didn't have. He moved it into place and climbed onto it. From there he looked out over the street, watching the people go by. His moment in charge didn't last long, though. He soon heard the door creak open behind him and Gavin's tall, slim father emerged, empty-handed. 

"No cigars," he growled. He was going through his pockets, in a fashion that was seemingly absent-minded or done mainly out of habit. "No cigars, no pipe tobacco... All out, damnit." He faced Clyde again. "Stay there. I'll be back in twenty minutes." He turned and began to walk away. 

Clyde called after him. "Where're ya goin'?" 

"To get some tobacco," Mr. Abbingway replied over his shoulder. He paused then and turned around. "Before I go..." He reached the counter and picked up one of the objects lying there for sale: the funny-looking headdress. "You know what this is, right?" His eyes were meaningful. There was only one answer he expected. 

Clyde leered. He felt in the mood to pull at the man's leg. It would be quite a brave feat to pull off though, considering he still had his reservations. Nevertheless, he went for it. "It's a silly ol' thing that Gavin bought from someone a long time ago and you found out and got mad, so you made him call it a moogle headdress. So people would buy it." 

Had he made a good call? Would Mr. Abbingway be mad at him? 

The old man's eyes twinkled. "Not a damn thing gets by you, does it?" Then his features, once momentarily softened with humor, grew stern again as usual. "It's a moogle headdress, if anyone asks." He placed the item back on the countertop. "I won't be too long. Half an hour at most." He turned and left then. 

Clyde turned back to the counter. Twenty minutes---or a whole half an hour---and he was in charge. He liked that. The idea of running something, of being the wielder of all the power that a shop owner possessed---slightly magnified as that power was, in the eyes of a boy---it seemed so very wonderful. Eight years old and here he was, in charge of a small store. He looked out on all the people of Valdebrooke that passed him by, his eyes hooded confidently, his expression oozing complete and utter calm. 

The feeling of being all-powerful quickly subsided into boredom after a few moments, however. Five minutes turned into ten and Clyde felt like he was going to go nuts. Is this what a shopkeeper did, just stare out at potential customers? Why couldn't they just come over here and buy something? He wanted to leave now, but if Mr. Abbingway didn't find him there when he got back... Well, Clyde didn't want to think about what could happen. 

So he sat there on the stool, squirming occasionally, wishing he could disappear again and be off somewhere else. Or maybe he could talk his parents into doing what he promised to do, so he could find something more exciting to pass the time. Anything to get him out of this trap! 

He never left though, so he was there to see his ship come in, a few moments later: a mother and her son, the latter leading the former, holding her hand, almost dragging her around town. It was clear that he was the one who gave all the orders, despite the fact that he looked to be no older than Clyde himself. The both of them were very nicely dressed, rather strikingly so in the environment of this little town. 

The boy's eyes gazed over the Abbingways' shop, left to right, then settled on something and widened. Immediately he steered his mother over to that incredible something. 

"Look! Lookit this! Hey, mom! Look!" The boy grabbed the so-called moogle headdress off the countertop. 

His mother gave it a look and sighed theatrically. "Why ever would you want _that_, Benjamin? It looks like junk to me---" 

Benjamin spun around, the headdress in his greedy little grasp. "Because I want it! Isn't that enough? Dad'd get it for me if he was here!" 

Clyde's eyes widened for a second, until he forced himself to go back to looking calm again. Well, here was something interesting. He might actually make a sale here! This kid didn't look like he was going to part with that gaudy thing anytime soon. Clyde leaned over the counter as far as he could and spoke. "Hey, kid! No touchin' unless you're buyin' it." 

The grabby boy looked up at him for the first time, as if he only just realized that Clyde had been sitting there. "This your shop?" he asked, and none too politely. 

Clyde nodded casually. "Yup. I run this shop." 

The boy's mother's eyes grew large. "So _that's_ what kind of town this is!" she exclaimed. "They let little children run shops here? All by themselves?" 

Clyde felt a bit taken aback. What was wrong with a kid his age running a shop? As far as he was concerned he was doing a pretty good job of it so far---even though all he'd been doing was looking out over Stratt Street. "My dad's on an errand," he fibbed easily, then changed the subject as quickly as he could. "So where are you two from? Narshe? Never saw you here before." 

The mother opened her mouth to answer, but her son ended up doing the talking. "Narshe?" he sneered. "Pfft! We're not from that crummy ol' town. We're from Jidoor," he added with pride. His stare met Clyde's, that same hooded look that Clyde himself had been using earlier during his first moments of shop keeping. 

Jidoor, Clyde thought. "So what're you doin' all the way out here?" 

"Antique hunting," said the boy's mother. Clyde noted that she answered very quickly, as if she feared her son would cut her off again. "We're out here looking for valuables. These places usually don't have much, but if you're lucky you can find something really nice." 

"Like this!" said Benjamin, holding the moogle headdress high over his head. "I want this!" 

"But I told you, dear, it's just junk..." 

"Ain't junk, ma'am," Clyde interjected. "S'a moogle headdress, you know." 

"A what?" asked Benjamin. 

"A moogle headdress. From one of them little critters in Narshe. You mean you never heard of 'em?" Clyde asked contemptuously. For a reason he couldn't quite put his finger on, he really wanted to make this two Jidoor folks look like fools. Maybe it was the way they carried themselves, like it was beneath them to wander into this little outskirt village. 

"I've heard of 'em. Just in stories though. I never knew they were _real_..." Benjamin looked to the headdress again, even more eagerly than before. Even under the awning of the shop, its feathers and gaudy beads were bright and beckoning. Behind her son, Benjamin's mother was chewing her lip cautiously. "How much is it?" Benjamin asked unabashedly, his eyes glittering like the headdress' rhinestones. 

Clyde paused awkwardly, losing his composure. How much _was_ that thing anyway? Mr. Abbingway was quick to point out to Clyde what he should say to customers, but he didn't tell him how much to charge them. "Oh, that's a really rare thing there," he began slowly. "Ya ain't gonna find that anywhere else, so I can't sell it cheap---" 

"I don't care!" Benjamin interrupted. "I won't be payin' for it." He turned around and shot his mother a look that Clyde couldn't see. "Now how much?" 

That slight pause was all Clyde needed. He didn't care how much he'd have to fork over? Fine then. "S'fifty gil." It was the biggest number the boy could think of. He wanted to go with one hundred, but he was aware of the look Benjamin's mother had. 

And sure enough, she had something to say about the fifty-gil price. "Fifty gil? Oh, that's just insane! Your father would _never_ get you something like that for fifty gil! That's just part of a costume! Look at it!" 

Benjamin rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. "Weren't you _listening_? He said it's a MOOGLE HEADDRESS. It's RARE, mom. Don't you like rare things?" 

His mother was silent. She looked very haggard at the moment. 

Benjamin continued. "I want it, so we're gettin' it." 

And get it he did. His mother reached over with another overemphatic sigh and dug into her purse, retrieving the necessary payment. She dropped the coins into Clyde's outstretched hand. Clyde took a moment to look over the money and make sure it was indeed fifty gil, before dropping it into a little pile right before himself. He placed his arms around it protectively. He'd ask where the money was put when Mr. Abbingway returned. "Thank you very much, ma'am." 

Benjamin took off with a cry, planting the headdress on his head and running about in the streets. A chocobo-drawn cart nearly collided with him, much to his mother's---and the driver's---distress. The woman ran after her boy, calling his name helplessly. 

Clyde watched the pair head down Stratt Street, until the wild colors of the moogle headdress were no longer visible. That was when he decided to gloat over the fifty gil he made for the Abbingways in their absence. A thought pricked him then, almost guiltily: he could have sold the Jidoor folk the silver sword that had caught his eye when he first arrived in Narshe, but it was too late now. Besides, he didn't know how much that was worth. Even a hundred gil might not have been the Abbingways' asking price. And those stuck-up folks weren't worth handing over that nice weapon. 

About five minutes later, Clyde spotted the thin black form of Mr. Abbingway coming up the street, an animated silhouette. The boy was tempted to fly off the stool and greet him with the news of his first sale, but he decided not to look too excited about it. He wanted to seem mature. 

Mr. Abbingway was puffing on a cigar. A whole box of them was in the crook of his right arm. "Any trouble?" he asked lightly, his gaze sweeping over the store's countertop. Of course, he noticed the missing headdress. "Where's the moogle headdress?" He looked up at Clyde almost accusingly. 

"I sold it," said the boy proudly. He leaned back, away from the counter, to display the gil pieces piled before him. 

"You _sold_ it?" Mr. Abbingway repeated incredulously. "For how much?" He shot Clyde a skeptical look, then scooped up the gil and counted it. "Fifty gil... Fifty gil! I was only selling it for twenty!" When he raised his eyes to Clyde again, they were smiling. "You're a smart little bugger, aren't you?" 

Clyde beamed. The first time in all the weeks he knew this man, and he finally smiled. 

Mr. Abbingway did something unexpected then. "Hold out your hand," he told Clyde, and into the open palm he dropped a total of ten gil. "Commission," he explained laconically. 

Clyde looked at the ten gil in his hand. He earned that money. That was his reward for being clever enough to know when opportunity was knocking. Yes, that was what commission meant, wasn't it? His pride was a very bloated thing at that moment, but light enough for him to carry. He slid off the tall stool and went around the counter towards the street. He was off to show this latest payoff to his parents.

-----

Strago and Relm's walk had taken them to the heart of Thamasa City, where the roads there were just as bustling as those in Strago's tale, in that far-off city called Valdebrooke. The two of them had stopped at a vendor's cart earlier, and were now off with apples in their hands. 

"Daddy was pretty smart then, for a kid," Relm piped up out of the blue. She stopped then thoughtfully, something keen shining in her green-gold eyes. "I'm a lot like him, aren't I, Grandpa?" She sunk her teeth into the ripe fruit, awaiting the old man's response. She was certain it would be affirmative; she just liked to needle him every now and then with a healthy dose of arrogance. 

Strago snorted. "Yeah, you sure are. I wonder who you get the modesty from?" 

"Well, was mom like that? Was she modest?" 

"Ah, not really. Well, not as I can recall..." The old mage scratched his head. His gaze grew distant. _She wasn't what I'd call "modest." But she wasn't quite like her daughter here..._

Relm threw Strago a quick corner-of-the-eye glance. _This little pause brought to us by senility._ She smiled to herself.

-----

They were very proud of him---Clyde's parents, that is, and for the most part. 

He was back in his family's hotel room, having just finished explaining to them what happened at the Abbingways' shop. His father seemed notably happier than his mother, who had been commenting recently that her boy was spending far too much time with those people. 

"You don't spend half as much time with your own parents," she chided him. "I almost feel like you're a stranger living with us." 

Edmund waved his hand at her, as if that gesture could shoo his wife's complaints away. "Ahh, he doesn't spend that much time there. Hell, if he's gonna come home with money like this, I ain't gonna complain. It's almost like he's got a job there." 

"Don't we need the money?" Clyde added. 

"Yeah, we need the money. You don't need to tell me that." Clyde's mother paused momentarily, then she said, "But I really don't want you gettin' too attached to those people. Sure, they're all friendly like, but we ain't gonna be here forever. You're gonna be awful sore when we have to leave them---" 

"But he'll have the money to remember them by!" Clyde's father pointed out cheerfully. He winked at his son conspiratorially. 

"And the bandanna," Clyde offered, indicating the raggedy black thing that had covered his blond hair for the better part of his days. It was as dirty as he was now, no longer new and outstanding as it once had been, but it was still very loved. It didn't always provide luck, but it was a constant reminder of the nice man who gave it to him for nothing, on that sullen day when he first arrived in Valdebrooke. Already it was a piece of history. 

His mother sniffed. "Ain't no good to form attachments. People often end up goin' their separate ways." 

She left to make dinner then, leaving Clyde to ponder her words. Yes, people often did go their separate ways; he knew that already. Take his sister. She'd been kidnapped before Clyde had been born. Was she even alive now? And his stay in Valdebrooke was never meant to be permanent. He knew that too. Trouble was, the idea of moving to Narshe was still a faraway concept, something he wouldn't have to deal with for a long, long time. 

...Until six days later, when the Arrowny family got a letter from the famed Silver City. There was a place for them now in Narshe. They were to move in as soon as possible, because the vacancy would remain waiting for them for a sixty-day period, no more, no less. 

The letter arrived very early that morning, during breakfast. Clyde's father was most elated. He pounded the breakfast table with his fist and declared, "Can you believe it? Thank gods! Finally! I was gettin' sick of looking at this place!" 

Clyde, on the other hand, was thunderstruck. The day he'd been dreading had finally come. He was going. He would be leaving Valdebrooke forever. Suddenly, everything within the city took on an air of utmost importance, from the alleyways he discovered while goofing off to all the time he spent with Gavin and his father. 

Gavin. Clyde hadn't gone outside to see if his friend had come back from Matrese yet. He had to do that immediately. 

He fled the room and shuffled downstairs as his parents uttered words of protest. He was out of the hotel in a flash. Halfway across the cobblestone street he stopped, shielding his eyes from the morning sun. Few people were about so early, as it was hardly into the nine o'clock hour. 

A thought hit him. These streets would no longer be his home. That hotel, the Marx, the one he was so used to by now, would be nothing more than a memory. When---or rather, _how fast_ would his parents be packing up what little they owned in a rented cart, drawn by one of this small town's overworked chocobos? How fast would they be on the road to a city that had been for the past several weeks nothing more than scenery, a skyline, a small cluster of lights at the base of the great mountains? 

Clyde would never see the Abbingways again, not while he was in Narshe. His parents wouldn't want to waste money paying for trips back to this place. They'd be too concerned with the silver that Narshe offered, and how to make their fortune...which was their reason for coming here in the first place. 

And what would Narshe be like? Would it be as dusty as this small town? It would certainly be more crowded, that much Clyde could bank on. It would probably be filled with strangers high and low, all of them bent on seeking out silver. And he, little Clyde Arrowny, would be but one speck amidst all the commotion. He might very well lose himself in Narshe. 

His feet were lead as he dragged them step by step to the Abbingways' residence. He rounded the counter, found the doorway to the house and knocked a few times. 

The butterflies in his stomach were throwing a party. All would be well if Gavin were there to greet him, he assured himself. He'd feel more confident about moving on if he could get one last word in with his old friend. 

He waited for a time, but there was no response. Frustrated now, he banged on the door, until a deep voice from inside met his ears through the walls. "I'm comin', damnit!" Then the door opened and Clyde backed up mechanically. He recognized the voice; it wasn't Gavin's. 

Sure enough, Mr. Abbingway was standing in the doorway, rubbing his eyes and blinking in the bright sunshine. "Clyde... Pretty damned early to come callin'. Whaddo you want? Got your folks mad again, I take it?" 

His words barely registered in the boy's mind. In fact, Clyde was stunned into a momentary silence after the door was opened; he nearly forgot what he wanted to say. "I'm leavin'," he finally admitted. His eyes raised from his feet to Mr. Abbingway's solemn, lined face. "Jus' wanted ta tell ya." Then he remembered why he came knocking in the first place. "Is Gavin back?" 

Mr. Abbingway shook his head. "Nope. Probably on 'is way, though." He eyed Clyde. "So Narshe finally has room for you and your folks?" 

Clyde swallowed and nodded, but the response was absentminded on his part. So Gavin hadn't come back yet. Then that meant that he'd never see the man again. Clyde doubted if he'd make it back in time for whenever his parents wanted to leave. He also doubted if his parents would wait a few days, maybe even a whole week, for the man to return. Their anxiousness to get into Narshe had not totally waned. They had no attachments to Valdebrooke that made moving seem like the most terrible notion on earth. 

He was frowning, the boy who never liked to wear his emotions on his sleeve. Mr. Abbingway saw this and softened up a bit, though Clyde was too depressed to be flattered by the reaction. "Ahh, I know, I know, you wanted to say goodbye to 'im. I c'n see that; you two were pretty close. Come on, come inside." He turned and led the way into his customarily dark residence. Clyde followed him like a little wind-up toy. 

"Had breakfast yet?" Mr. Abbingway asked as he parted the curtains of some of the windows, allowing the light to seep inside. He gave Clyde a look, awaiting an answer. 

"Yep." 

"Mmm. Hadn't even had mine yet. Been sleepin' too late these past coupla days. My son's the early riser, see." When he was satisfied that the room was well-lit---as much as his liking of darkness would allow---he crossed the room and sat down on a sofa there. 

Standing where he was, Clyde was swallowed up by nostalgia: that was the same spot Mr. Abbingway had been sitting on that same sofa, a long time ago when Clyde first visited this house. It was on the day he got his precious bandanna. He felt like falling to pieces. He'd never be inside this little house ever again, not at least until he was old enough to travel himself without his parents, but even then, would things be the same here? In ten years, would the Abbingways have packed up and moved on? 

Just then, Mr. Abbingway coaxed Clyde closer with a crooked finger. "C'mere, son. I got a little somethin' for ya." 

There was a small table beside the sofa with a lamp resting atop it; beneath was a little cubby filled with books and things. Clyde had seen that during his past visits, but he never thought much of it until now. He watched as Gavin's father pulled out one of the many books there: something of average width, not too thin or too thick, with a worn burgundy cover. There were gold letters etched on the front, spelling out words Clyde couldn't readily see. 

"I want you to have this," Mr. Abbingway began, holding the book upright to Clyde could read the title. 

"'_His Empty Hands_'?" 

"It's a good book; it's one of my favorites. Had it since I was sixteen, I think. Not too sure though; it's really been a while. Book must be fifty years old by now, so take care of it." He held it out to Clyde, who took it reverently. 

He studied it with curiosity that was subdued, for heavy matters weighed down his mind. He turned it over a few times, then opened it to a random page and read a few lines to himself: 

_"I wasn't much older than five, maybe six, but I learned then something that would be with me for life. It would be an impression I couldn't ever erase, and even if I willed it to, it would never have left me. It was a part of me, ingrained in my mind, etched onto my soul like the gilded letters of an ancient text. I embraced the ideal. I was the ideal."_

Clyde looked up. Those words were rather touching, although there were a few he couldn't understand, given his lack of formal education. There were even a few he couldn't pronounce, but he got the message. He closed the book. "If you like it so much, why're you givin' it to me?" 

"Call it a farewell gift," came Mr. Abbingway's reply. "I've read it over so many times I got the whole thing memorized. I think you'll like it. It'll give you somethin' to do on your way to the Silver City." 

Silver City. Sucks to the Silver City, Clyde thought. He lowered his head and felt tears touch his eyes, but he restrained them. Gods, was he ever angry. Why did he have to leave? Why couldn't that stupid letter have waited for Gavin's return? 

When he felt his emotions were back under his command, he looked up again. "D'you think... If my parents left this afternoon, rather than this morning, d'you think Gavin'd be back by then?" 

Mr. Abbingway shook his head solemnly. "Don't think so. Takes weeks to travel from here to Matrese, and vice-versa. I reckon he'll be back by the time you're all settled in up there." 

Clyde sighed loudly. The whole situation was so awfully unfair. Why _now_, of all times? Oh, asking why questions wasn't going to make his burdens any lighter! He'd have to do something about them himself. "Thanks," he said to Mr. Abbingway, and the old man nodded. 

"And if I don't see you after this, you take care a' yourself up there." 

With that, Clyde left the Abbingway residence for the final time. He had many things on his mind, including what he was going to tell his parents the moment he got back to their room. Thus he didn't realize that that had been the last time he would ever be in his friend Gavin's house. 

He stormed across Stratt Street and back into his hotel. Inside he confronted his parents, upset as he was, demanding, begging, pleading that they put off leaving for at least a few days. Maybe Gavin would be back by then. Then he'd be able to say goodbye to the first real friend he made outside of Zozo. 

His parents would hear none of it, as could be expected. However, Clyde was able to persuade them to wait at least until mid-afternoon that day. He had successfully bought a few hours of time. 

So he waited. He was so caught up in his wishful thinking that he didn't bother to visit all the places he'd found during his stay in town, or see any of the other things he wanted to see before he left. He never strayed too far from the curb before the Marx hotel. At any moment, he told himself, a cart could come up bearing his good friend fresh from his trip out west. 

The sun climbed higher into the sky and the streets grew busier, but no cart ever came with Gavin riding in it. It was with spent fury and empty sadness that Clyde returned to his parents room, where he found them packing their meager belongings for their trip. Clyde's father soon left to secure the rental of a cart and a chocobo, and soon the little family was going in and out of the hotel, loading their things. It was a really nice day out, and the little Arrowny boy hated it passionately. He would have rather had it raining, to match how he felt. The sky didn't deserve to be bright. At that time, nothing did. 

When the cart was loaded and the chocobo hitched up to it, the Arrowny family was ready at last to bid Valdebrooke farewell. Edmund sat up front with his wife and Clyde sat in the back with the family's possessions, bandanna on his head and book in his arms. No one could have pried either item from him without quite a tussle. 

He was sitting as far back in the cart as he possibly could, so he could look back on the town he'd called home for the past few weeks. There was Mr. Abbingway right where he should be, minding his shop. His dark eyes were trained on the dusty boy in the cart with a sort of father-to-son affection. For a moment Clyde was hit with the thought of running out of the cart and stowing away somewhere, maybe even in Mr. Abbingway's house the way he always did in the past when things went awry. Then he could stay in Valdebrooke forever with Gavin and his father. 

But he couldn't find the strength to climb out of the cart; he felt weighed down by all his feelings. They felt heavy, soggy with unshed tears. 

The crack of the reigns greeted Clyde's ears as his father spurred on the chocobo. He heard the bird snort and chirp in reply and the cart lurched forward, starting to move. Clyde didn't even turn around. Instead, he watched as Mr. Abbingway left his place at the counter and came to stand before his small shop, the better to see the Arrowny family off on their way. 

"You take care now, ya hear?" he called to Clyde. 

That was when Clyde saw him: a boy probably no older than twelve, taking advantage of Mr. Abbingway's turned back. He crept around to the front of the counter and tried to reach for something. Clyde couldn't tell what it was, because Mr. Abbingway spun around in the blink of an eye and grabbed the would-be robber by the wrist. 

"Go on, git! Ya wretched vermin!" He jerked the boy free and he took off as quickly as he had appeared. Mr. Abbingway turned back to Clyde, who was by then over twenty feet away down the cobblestone road. "Business as usual, Arrowny!" he shouted, smiling. 

Clyde couldn't muster the energy to return that smile. He clutched his book tighter and watched as Valdebrooke passed him by. Soon the cobblestone road ceded to a rough dirt path, a winding road that would lead to the outskirts of Narshe. There his family would have to find the elder's residence and inform the city's Lot Commission of their arrival, before they could be shown to their new home. The scenes of those people, those endless streets of hotels, and that of Mr. Abbingway, clad in his usual black attire, waving at him as they grew further apart, would be the last scenes of Valdebrooke that Clyde would ever see in his lifetime. 

-----

It was raining, as Strago had predicted. The old blue mage had the hood of his robe drawn over his thinning white hair. Relm, however, was getting soaked as the pair made their way home. The sky seemed to snarl down at them now, an ugly mix of rain-drenched grays. There was no thunder or lightning at all. 

The little artist girl was frowning as she and her grandfather rushed back to their house. Strago had just finished the latest chapter of her father's story and the ending had been a particularly depressing one. Fitting then that the sky should be so cruel in its bearing as to rain on them now. "Did daddy ever see Mr. Abbingway or Gavin again?" Relm inquired. 

"Oh no, no, he never saw either of them again," Strago replied. "Watch out there---mud puddle. Don't want you trackin' anything into the house." 

Relm stopped abruptly and skirted around the depression in her path. Already the dirt roads of Thamasa were turning muddy and her shoes were slick with it. "That's so sad. I hate sad stories!" 

Strago swallowed. _Oh, Relm... Don't say that. You're making me feel guiltier than I already am for tellin' you this._

The two walked on further in silence, soon reaching their house in time for the first rumble of thunder to boom overhead. 

Relm had another question. "So what happens then, when daddy gets to Narshe?" 

"Well, for one thing, he finally gets a chance to go to school." Strago wiped his feet on the little doormat outside before opening the door and heading into his home. Relm did likewise. 


End file.
